


The Official Fanfiction University of Westeros

by brandend



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Cleganebowl, Crackpot Benjen Theories, Dragons, F/M, Gen, Get Hype, Inspired by Fanfiction, Mini Dragons, OFU, Official Fanfiction University, Pain, Parody, Satire, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-28 22:33:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 60,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3872233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brandend/pseuds/brandend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here be (mini) dragons. All fangirls, including pervy Robb-fancying, badfic-writing Saskia Crockett, must serve at the Official Fanfiction University of Westeros, Harrenhal, where they learn to write and atone for their fanfiction sins through education, experience, and torture. </p><p>Spinoff of Miss Cam's Official Fanfiction University of Middle Earth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Go West(eros)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Official Fanfiction University of Middle Earth](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/112924) by misscam. 



**The Official Fanfiction University of Westeros**

If you've not read the marvellous Lord of the Rings original by misscam (Camilla Sandman), you definitely should. All credit goes to Cam for the idea and the format, and she does permit spinoffs and the like. I _had_ to write a version for Westeros. I did just (read: hours ago) Google and come across one abandoned start and brainstorming session to an OFUW that didn't go anywhere, as far as I could tell, in some forum somewhere, so here we are. I didn't find this until after plotting my own OFUW, and, in truth, I didn't read much of what others had written due to not wanting to mess up _my_ OFUW; any similarities are coincidences.

I am not GRRM, of course, and all non-original characters and anything related to ASOIAF are his property or, in the case of show-only characters who may appear, the showrunners or HBO or someone who is not me.

* * *

Saskia Crockett was one of the ones who should have known better.

As she mulled about her Ealing flat dressed only in a raggedy, oversized Laverstock and Ford rain jacket, surrounded by stacks upon stacks of literary journals long overdue – a fair many of them bookmarked, disgustingly, with old chocolate wrappers – Saskia pondered. Or, rather, she tried to ponder. It was kind of hard to do that with the last of the rum she'd had that morning – yesterday night, now, was it? – still making an horrific fog of her pounding head, and with too much of Byron in vain attempting to slog through it. Instead of really pondering, then, Saskia stared, with the blank-eyed gape of cattle and drunks and chavs, at the barely-written document before her, and for a decent five minutes, at that. That dratted essay, it seemed, would not be writing itself.

 _I'm clever enough to bullshit. Haven't I bullshitted my way through everything else ever?_ she thought. Saskia _was_ quite clever, it was true, or so she supposed from having been told so forever. She had aced her A Levels – something of which her parents were exceptionally proud – and had turned down a life she'd dreamt to come to London, of all awful places she hated. She was also quite stupid, having come to London based just a bit too much on a love that lasted… well, much shorter than love is supposed to last, but about as long as it's expected to when you're going on eighteen and experiencing genitals for the first time. What felt like aeons later now, though, Saskia supposed she was wiser for the experience. Slightly. Maybe. She still hadn't learnt not to procrastinate, after all, or that mixing lager and rum in immense quantities didn't agree with her poor abused stomach in the slightest.

Bullshitting it was, then. But a mere two pages into that vile paper on Byron and the influence of the neoclassical on Hellenism in _Childe Harold's Pilgrimage_ , on which she'd middlingly worked for half an hour before heading out for Declan's what felt like aeons ago, Saskia caved, and she caved hard. Before she even knew what she was doing, why it was wrong, and why it was wrong particularly now when she had another twenty or so pages to finish within thirty-one hours, Saskia opened folder after folder, descending deeper and deeper into her files until she uncovered the main site of her shame and her joy: a folder entitled 'Tax Documents'. Nothing taxation-related lay here, no, and no one snooping around for fun would ever be bored enough to took _here_. Therein lay the one thing she cared about at the moment, and, in truth, had cared about since she binge-watched _Game of Thrones_ a few months prior—

 _Robb. Robb Stark. Robb Stark. Richard Madden._ ("Hnng," Saskia bit her lip and moaned softly as she opened a .gif of him smiling, a slight breeze flirting with his perfect, perfect hair.)

The King in the North would never leave her, never betray her, never do her wrong. If he did do her wrong, he would realise the errors of his ways soon enough, and they'd kiss, make up, and have the best damn sex afterwards. She'd be his helpmate, his lover, his wife, the mother of his wee auburn-haired, gorgeous little babbies that'd have her hazel eyes and his beautiful lips. If it were Robb with whom she'd lain the first time, and not Charlie, he'd have done right by her. He would have married her for her honour's sake, for her beauty, for _love_ , goddamnit, because she was worthy of that, at least, or she thought.

Robb Stark was noble. Robb Stark was strong. Robb Stark was not dead, no, and was just sleeping off the Red Wedding with Grey Wind adorably curled up at his side, waiting for her to join him. And, of course, Robb Stark was a sexbeast. That much was undebatable.

Her ten-minute-long Robb Stark gawkfest and pre-writing ritual of watching that .gif loop like an hundred times complete, Saskia opened her newest and first fanfiction.

" _No, Father!"_ she continued typing where she left off. _"Never!"_

" _You must, Lyalyah. You have to marry the King in the North! The fate of House Ranford depends on it!"_

_Lyalyah's sea-blue eyes watered. "But I don't even know him!"_

" _You will come to know him," said Jurndow Ranford with a small smile, "and you will even come to love him as I came to love your mother."_

" _It's not fair!" Lyalyah whined, tears beginning to spill down her alabaster cheeks. How could her father be so cruel as to arrange a marriage for her? She was a strong, fierce woman. She was better than that! She wouldn't marry Robb Stark. She_ wouldn't _. She swore upon it, by the old gods, by the new gods, on her own life. "Why Robb Stark?"_

" _He is the King in the North! Winterfell is his. We made a pact with the Starks, and we intend to keep it. He will be good to you, Lyalyah, and your fierce spirit will help him more than either of you know."_

 _Lyalyah had had enough. Twisting out of her father's intrusive embrace, she ran out the room, slammed the door ferociously behind her, and hurried off down the corridor and into the godswood overlooking the sea. She wept beneath the weirwood for an hour, sobs shaking in her breast._ Gods, do not make me marry Robb, _she pleaded, but she knew that the gods would never answer her prayers..._

"Sweet summer child, no."

Saskia slammed her laptop shut and spun around, wildly surveying her skanky mess of a room. Goodnight, books. Goodnight, unmade bed. Goodnight, trousers. Goodnight… disembodied voice? No, no one was here. She'd not had any YouTube tabs open, and her laptop was shut besides. Everything was quiet, except for whatever _that_ had been, if that had been at all. On a scale of one to ten, exactly how ossified was she now? She guessed about an eleven if she were hearing things that weren't there, but she hadn't had a drink in two hours and was not that far gone from reality, she knew. And now something — _someone_ — was clacking.

"Hello?" she called.

"Hello, Saskia," came the shockingly saccharine reply, to which Saskia jumped. How did it know her name? "To go forward, you must go back. To write fanfiction, you must enrol in the Official Fanfiction University of Westeros."

" _Pardon?_ " Great. Now she was conversing with nothing.

"There is no other way. To go forward, you must go back. To write fanfiction, you must enrol in the Official Fanfiction University of Westeros and successfully graduate, for you have been caught committing atrocities against this fandom, the most dire of which are insipid fangirling, very little understanding of canon, modern notions of feminism and women's behaviour and duties, and an implausible, uncanonical, and exasperating OC."

She snorted. "Well, uh, brilliant, I'll just give up my Literature course to do that. Everyone'll be so proud. My dad especially."

"You know nothing, Saskia Crockett. You do not seem to understand. You must enrol in the Official Fanfiction University of Westeros."

"You said I must if I wanted to write fanfiction, but I don't, really, to be honest," she said. "I'm just bored of working on my paper, you know. And once I'm done and not procrastinating, and not at uni, I want to write my own novel. Something historical, probably."

"You don't? You've been thinking of this fic for months. What else do you daydream about on the bus? Oh, sweet summer child." Saskia could almost sense the smirk in the voice's speech. "No. Look."

Saskia turned to wherever it seemed the voice was. There, a black-clad girl holding an enormous stack of papers stood staring at her from the threshold. She was about a mere five foot tall and had the physique of a twelve-year-old, despite seeming just around Saskia's age, if not a little younger. Her long, purposely tousled strawberry blond hair was done up in a loose bun, and her plastic-framed 80s glasses were too big for her face and made her blue-green eyes appear almost buglike. With a scowl near to forming in the corners of her lips and one of the worst cases of resting bitch face that Saskia had seen in quite some time, she did not look unlike a pale, scrawny, human version of Grumpy Cat. She was flanked by a tall, beardless, hollow-looking creep of a man who stared, with deadened, pallid eyes, and clacked at Saskia.

"This is Ser Ilyn Payne," the intruder began, "fanbrat wrangler and resident executioner. I am Miss Ellie, the coordinator and sometime fanbrat wrangler at the Official Fanfiction University of Westeros, in beautiful, historic, utterly ruined Harrenhal, where we learn to write _well_ through exposure, experience, explicit instruction, and, most importantly of all, thorough torture. Under the rule of Tywin of House Lannister and under the tutelage of professors from across the Seven Kingdoms, you will be learning aplenty in modules such as History of the Seven Kingdoms, Westerosi Sex and Society, Domestic Arts: Actually Acting a Lady, Military Realism 101, Honour and Dignity for Twats, Slaying 101, and Intro to Creepily Scheming, amongst others. We await you, Saskia Crockett."

Miss Ellie passed Saskia one of her many sheets of paper. "Your enrolment form, to be completed at once. And no worries, child. Your time in the real world will not be affected by your time spent in Westeros. It's a nice wee holiday. That lasts a year, or nigh on. And involves Robb Stark and Jon Snow. They are both even more attractive in person, I assure you. Jorah, not so much. Won't it be nice to have a sanctioned holiday about now?"

Saskia's heart welly stopped. Robb Stark?! Count her in.

 _I should know better. I'm for sure high or drunk off my arse_. _Surely_. High enough to fill out a form signing over a year of her life to a formerly disembodied intruder in her bedroom at half past two in the morning. High enough to consider that the King in the North was, in fact, somehow real, and that signing this thing would bring her closer to her gods-chosen, fictional love. Clearly.

Her doubts cast aside just a wee some, she turned her attention to the form.

 **Full name:** Saskia Louise Crockett.

 _Might as well be truthful_ , she thought with a grunt. Fucking _Saskia_. Still, objectively, better than Lyalyah, and she had no delusions of ever being the sassy eldest daughter of House Ranford of the Reach; they were close enough personality-wise, anyways.

 **Date and place of birth:** 30 August 1995, Warminster.

 **Appearance:** Chest-length blackish hair, hazel eyes, average height.

 **Any OCs? Please describe:** Lyalyah Ranford, the eldest daughter of a minor house. Black hair, blue eyes, freckles, slender, feisty, strong, is skilled with a blade. She is independent and doesn't want anyone to make decisions for her, especially in love.

 **Preferred lust object[s] and why:** ROBB STARK DO I EVEN NEED TO EXPLAIN WHY?!

 **Favourite ships:** Robb/me, Robb/OC, Robb/Khaleesi, Khaleesi/Jorah, Grey Worm/Missandei.

_But mostly Robb/me._

**What kind of fics do you write?:** Well, I've only just started the one. Feisty girl has an arranged marriage to Robb, comes to love him, is the best Queen in the North in the history of Westeros.

 **Have you ever written non-canonical slash or incest?:** No. Robb is not gay.

 **Have you read the books?:** The first chapter of the first one… does that count?

In Saskia's defence, she hadn't even had the time, energy, or willpower to do a fair lot of her assigned readings, and thus couldn't be expected to read much for leisure when leisure now meant television, Guinness, and slacking. (She did, indeed, have enough time and energy to watch HBO livestreams in the dead of morning.)

 **Who should sit the Iron Throne?:** Khaleesi or Tyrion, with Robb as the King in the North.

**How should we dispose of your remains should you die whilst on your course?:**

Saskia, reeling, looked to Miss Ellie.

"This a serious question?"

Miss Ellie and Ser Ilyn grinned. "This is _Game of Thrones_. Naturally. Valar morghulis and all that. The Andals and Northmen from south of the Wall prefer burial, by the way. Now, how would you prefer we dispose of you should you be disposed of?"


	2. The State of the Union

It was the dead of night. Or morning, rather. At this point, after having just been rudely awoken as the fangirls were wont to be for no reason at all (or so it seemed), none of the staff could tell, and none of the staff could care. Tyrion, Sansa, Brienne, Catelyn, Jeyne Westerling, Robb, Jon, Ygritte, Sam, Daenerys, Ramsay, Davos, and Sandor were crowded around a table in the not-scummy-at-all-for-Harrenhal meeting room, all in various states of dress and undress. Sadly for fangirls and luckily for just about everyone else, Robb, Jon, and Ramsay were, it must be noted, fully clothed. They waited, mostly bleary-eyed, for all of thirty seconds, until there was a knock on the door and Miss Ellie spilled in, juggling a veritable tower of paperwork and an enormous plastic bag.

“For _later_ ,” Miss Ellie stressed, eyeing the staff eyeing the bag. “I’m kind enough to spend my own British coin on feeding you if you’re kind enough to listen for half an hour.”

“That’s about everyone, then,” Tyrion muttered. “Of course my lord father is too busy to attend his own damn meeting.”

“It _is_ quite late, Tyrion, and much must be done before dawn,” Miss Ellie yawned, setting her papers and what smelled like Chinese takeaway on a sideboard and slinking into an empty seat between Sam and Daenerys. “Even Manderly’s in a rush, and you know how that goes.”

“Have you wrangled all of them now?” Tyrion asked.

“Ilyn and I just got back from wrangling the last of the Britons about an hour ago. The last of them were all in the environs of London, conveniently for us. Ilyn and Oberyn should be returning from Australia with eleven charges first thing in the morning, and Jaime and Bronn should be back within the hour with two from Spain and one from Italy. That should be all of the pupils now.”

“And how many would that be?”

“Three hundred and nineteen. There were five last-minute enrolments.”

He sighed heavily. “Seventy more than last year.”

“And three hundred and nineteen too many,” Sandor grunted.

“Ours is a growing fandom, fortunately and unfortunately, thanks to the popularity of the show,” Miss Ellie commented, “and for that, we must educate the brats as swiftly and efficiently as possible so that they may set a decent standard for future fan works to uphold, because the gods know we’re desperate for good stories whilst we wait on GRRM to finish the books. Canon must be restored.”

“There will always be _The North Remembers_.”

“Yes, Jon, and very little else,” Miss Ellie lamented. “For every fic that’s halfway decent, there are fifty Mary Sues clamouring to fuck your brother, thirty to fuck you, and ten poorly-written lemons about you getting over your grief at everyone you love being dead by having a scat-filled threesome with Satin and Davos in the Castle Black larder.”

Davos and Jon turned to look at each other very, very awkwardly, and simultaneously stifled a gag.

“My thoughts exactly,” Ellie said. “The uncanonical plague of bad slash, bad fluff, Starkcest, and Gary Stus and Mary Sues must be stopped, and I alone cannot stop it. What good have my own canon-compliant fics done?”

“None,” Sansa said, compelled to answer the obviously rhetorical question. “No one reads them.”

Sam agreed. “They _might_ if she threw in some naked Gendry.”

“Thanks for the suggestion, Sam.”

“Because good models of fanfiction are obviously ineffective, as of yet, anyways, the girls’ attendance here is as necessary as our presence here this morning. _Although_ ,” Tyrion said, mismatched eyes sweeping the room, “not everyone unexcused for reasons related to duty is in attendance tonight.”

Davos was on his feet at once. “My apologies, Lord Tyrion, but the Mannis cannot be bothered with trifles as small as staff meetings. He has seven kingdoms to conquer.”

“Last I checked, Stannis Baratheon was a lecturer at the Official Fanfiction University of Westeros and a retired military leader not currently in combatance with the Crown. In future, the Mannis will bother with staff meetings if he wishes to keep his position here. His expertise in strategy is needed. Sit down, Davos, and make this clear to Stannis when he wakes.”

Tyrion yawned, continuing. “Now, Lord Tywin has left me with several points to bring to your attention, briefly, before term begins. It will be a very long one, I’m sure. His first point: our expensive mini dragon issue.”

“We would not have to spend so much on the dragons were they to eat the little darlings,” Ramsay offered immediately, his pale eyes sparkling.

“Three hundred badfic writers will feed three full-size dragons and a hundred miniature ones for all of a couple days. We make money off the little darlings,” Tyrion noted, “and the Iron Bank needs repaying.”

“But if Daenerys,” Ramsay turned to her with crazy, pleading eyes, “let the dragons loose more often, they could sate themselves on the smallfolk, and who cares about the smallfolk? Or open fighting pits— a _new_ kind of tournament here at Harrenhal. Charge a small fee, pay some peasants a smaller wage, arm them with twigs when you’d promised them swords, and the dragons have a meal and you’ve coin in your coffers.”

Daenerys huffed. “They’d develop a taste for human flesh. No, Ramsay.”

“But that’s the point!”

“ _No_.”

“More important,” Tyrion coughed, “is teaching our charges how to spell, thus eliminating the spawning of more mini dragons. We have enough debts and security as it is.”

“But they’re _incapable_ of spelling,” Jeyne said, remembering Jane, Jayne, Jene, Jayn, and Jeyn the dragons. Catelyn and Daenerys nodded in assent. “Some of them have read the books, evidenced by their knowledge of my existence, and still cannot.”

“For those of you who teach, it is my lord father’s wish that you create and strongly enforce rules regarding asking how to spell names before writing them and using the books’ appendices for reference. There are more than enough copies in the library. If your pupils do very little writing, Catelyn, Sansa, Jeyne, it is worth your time to recite characters’ names whilst working, making sure to spell everything. He wishes especially to tell Brienne _not_ to go soft on the darlings in this or any regard, for they have neither honour nor shame, and will exploit any weakness perceived in a first-year teacher.”

“As commanded, my lord,” Brienne said, nodding slightly.

“Are they even capable of reading, though?” Robb mused. “Didn’t seem like any last year were literate. I got an essay on the regional wardens in the War of the Ninepenny Kings once that just said ‘Rob iz hott’ twenty times with hearts all over it.”

“Never underestimate the reading skills of fangirls who will trudge through six thousand pages in search of fluff and detailed descriptions of naked arses, yours especially, Robb Stark,” Miss Ellie warned. “They will not find it, but with find and latch onto the most inane shit possible, and post it all over the echo chamber that is Tumblr. Cases in point: Sansa and Sandor, Arya and Gendry, Theon being gay for all the Stark brothers, Theon being in love with Ramsay even after having his dick flayed and severed.”

The collective look of revulsion on the faces of Sansa, Robb, Jon, and Sandor said enough. No matter how many times they had heard such disturbing nonsense, it was always, _always_ disgusting.

Ramsay, unfazed, waved to get Miss Ellie’s attention, cocking his head as he smiled just a tad evilly. “He’s called _Reek_ , Miss.”

“Never mind what he’s called, Ramsay. The brats will and do believe nonsense.”

“So did our charges last year,” Tyrion said, “and it is imperative that we shut it down as quickly as possible through both education and our own behaviour. Do not encourage any… _alternative_ beliefs unless they appear in the writings of George RR Martin, himself. Davos, my father notes that it would be appreciated if you and Princess Shireen could stress critical thinking and close reading over the flood of ‘OTP feels’ in your reading circle, and report any particularly insistent and incorrect interpretations of canon to Eleanor.”

“Of course, Lord Tyrion. At your service, Miss Ellie.”

“My father also wishes to note that the death rate in the archery section of Slaying 101 is too damn high. Six percent last year for archery, and only one percent in Bronn and Oberyn’s sections. That’s fifteen young lives snuffed out, and fifteen payments not going towards our debt.”

Sandor grunted. “A pity, certainly.”

“A word,” Jon interjected. “It’s not Ygritte’s fault that projectile weapons and idiots don’t mix. Half the lot seem to think they’re someone called Katniss Everdeen.”

“Tha’ or Princess Merida, whoever tha’ is.”

“Could we not start the pupils out with imported Nerf products from another dimension?” Brienne asked. “It would be a lot less dangerous. I mean, we’ve had spinny chairs and Cheez-Its imported. Why not non-deadly weapons?”

“Oh, sweet summer child,” Miss Ellie whispered.

“No good t’ teach wi’,” Ygritte countered. “Can’t eat ‘em, neither.”

“No fun,” Ramsay pouted.

“And _prohibitively_ expensive,” Tyrion said with an air of finality, “even if Anguy hadn’t blown the archery department’s budget on whores.”

“Why did gingers even get a budget?” Robb wondered aloud as Jeyne elbowed him, hissing something about him being a ginger in book canon.

“No matter. Anguy will not be returning this year. I know it is nigh on impossible to guarantee the safety of armed morons, particularly on your own this year, Ygritte, but if the death rate does not decrease, my lord father threatens to reassign you to the housekeeping staff.”

Before she could even get in a word of protest, there was a furious banging on the door and an awful, horrendously loud smash as said door broke and crashed to the floor. Hodor, panting, was in the threshold, clad only in britches and slippers, leaning heavily on the doorframe as he hodored apologetically.

“Hooooodor. Hodor.”

“Is it time, Hodor?” Miss Ellie asked.

“Hodor,” Hodor hodored Hodorly. “Hodor hodor hodor, hodor hodor! Hodor hodor! Hoooooooodor hodor hodor hodor hodor hodor, hodor, hodor hodor hodor hodor!”

“It seems to be quarter past one,” Catelyn translated and abridged from the Hodorese, “and we are late.”

Tyrion was up at once. “Ramsay, your vuvuzela! Hodor, your megaphone! Davos, the coconut halves! Once more unto the dormitories! Once more to wake the fanbrats!”

 


	3. And Now Her Joy Is Ended

The first things Saskia noticed when she came to, if only for a wee bit, were the cold and the faint howl of wind between cracks of half-ruined stone.

She was somewhere that seemed to be the dankest, dampest, skankiest hotel room or dormitory known to man, on the most uncomfortable mattress on which she'd ever slept (even considering the shite camp beds of her girlguiding days, when she was fortunate enough to be permitted those). It must've been straw, for her legs itched whenever she stirred, and she could've sworn she felt tickled by… something. Jerking, she sat up, running her hands over her legs – still bare, still cold – and clutching at the material beneath her. Yep, straw, and a thin, scratchy blanket covering it and all the foul critters that probably inhabited it. What the fuck kind of place had straw beds, anyway, and why would she even go there? She had an essay to finish before she could even think of having a holiday, besides.

_Westeros?_ Saskia answered her own question. _Wherever the Amish live?_

Saskia knew less than Jon Snow when it came to the Amish, but she was fairly certain that they did not live in castles. The walls all around her were stone. A weak and smoky fire was smouldering in a small hearth near the foot of her bed, offering very little warmth, especially considering that there was an open, glassless window in the wall opposite the one against which her bed lay. Was she in a castle? Harrenhal? Westeros? That had been a drunken dream, though, that Grumpy Cat-looking girl and her bald creeper of a companion who had forced her to sign over a year of her life to learning how to write _Game of Thrones_ fanfiction. Wherever she was, she was going to be having one hell of a belated hangover, and would be leaving one very negative review on Yelp when she got home.

Saskia was just so knackered and cold and thirsty that she couldn't do aught but lie down again, roll over to face the wall, cover her eyes with the too-long sleeves of her jacket, and hope she fell asleep to wake up either back in London or, if this really were Westeros (which it couldn't be, right?), in a feather bed also containing Robb, stark naked, waiting for her with a glass of wine and a need to take her again and again. The thought was enough to warm her for all of five seconds. She curled up between the blanket, which wasn't even long enough to cover her, and the nasty straw, her eyes heavy. She'd sort this all out at a more reasonable hour.

Some minutes later – Saskia couldn't tell how long, and couldn't care – when she'd sunk into sleep again, just at the point of being half-conscious, a door groaned.

"Fire's welly out now. Oh."

"Ooh, look, Lucy! Another one! Ooh, Lucy, poke it. You should poke it," someone very Irish was pleading.

"It?" The girl – Lucy, presumably – had a distinctly Northern accent that Saskia couldn't name or begin to describe, above all now when she was scarcely conscious. " _She's_ our last roommate, seems. Must've got dumped here durin' supper or sometime."

"But is it dead? Poke it. See if it's dead."

"Why'd Miss Ellie give us a dead one, hm?" There was a creaking as someone came to sit on the bed beside her. "See, na, she's breathin', just right jiggered, like. And no kecks to boot. Must've been havin' a mint night, her, when she were wrangled."

_Miss Ellie?!_ _Others, or voices in her head, shared the delusion?!_

"What does that mean?"

"I mean, she's exhausted, and she's not wearin' any pants. Trousers. Whatever you call the things in Kilkenny, she's not got 'em, plainly. Clearly she were havin' a good time in some way."

"Well, its fun's over now. You wake it and get it to move. It can have the floor."

"I'm not wakin' her, Orla, and don't you be wakin' her or me. I'm goin' to sleep. You want to be oinin' people for no good, that's what Letty'll be for when she's back."

"But—"

"Get to sleep. We've orientation first thing in the mornin'. Don't you want to look pretty for Jaime Lannister?"

_For… Jaime Lannister? What?_

"But—"

"Ssh. Put another log on and get to bed, Orla."

There was someone clambering over Saskia in bed. Someone was in her bed. Or was she in someone's bed? Did she have her own? Did it matter? But said someone also laid another blanket on top of her – of them – and that was nice. After a while, still unable to sleep, she dared to squint open her eyes. The Northern girl, facing her and fast asleep, had one of those long, soft, slightly daft-looking faces common amongst the inbred, the English, and Renaissance depictions of the Virgin Mary. She was… nice, in a way, or just oddly nice-looking, from what Saskia could see in the dying firelight.

Somewhat assured and slightly warmer, and by now beyond exhausted, Saskia rolled over and slept. Until…

"WAKEY WAKEY, LITTLE BRAT!" someone yelled in her face before playing something – a _vuvuzela?_ – directly in her ear.

Saskia screamed and attempted to jump out of bed, falling over Lucy in the process.

"WAKEY WAKEY, LITTLE BRATS!" the intruder yelled between discordant vuvuzela blares and over the sounds of something being banged. "UNCLE RAMSAY'S HERE TO WAKE YOU! TIME FOR ORIENTATION!"

A brown-haired, greyish-bearded man with a little bag around his neck, looking grumbly and bothered at having to do this, was rolling his eyes and banging coconut halves together. Thankfully, he wasn't doing it in the immediate vicinity of anyone's ears. This… Ramsay, though (Bolton?!), swung an armful of sacks to the floor and blew that fucking thing again, right in Lucy's face.

"IT'S TIME FOR ORIENTATION! TIME FOR ORIENTATION! TIME FOR ORIENTATION! TIME FOR ORIENTATION! TIME FOR ORIENTATION! TIME FOR ORIENTATION! HALL OF THE HUNDRED HEARTHS IN HALF AN HOUR! GET YOUR NEW CLOTHES ON AT ONCE! TIME FOR ORIENTATION! TIME FOR ORIENTATION!"

With a final screech of his fine hot pink vuvuzela in Orla's face, Ramsay Snow was gone.

The girls had had to rush to get dressed, fumbling in the dark with the sacks of university-approved frocks and smallclothes that Ramsay had dropped off before vuvuzela-ing other innocuous souls in the tower. As Saskia struggled with the laces of her new boots, her hands shaking from the cold, she could hear someone yelling HOOOODDOOOOOOOOOOOOORRRRRRRR ad nauseam.

Then it was down an ostensibly endless and fanbrat-crowded flight of winding castle stairs (at least ten storeys' worth, Saskia wagered), across a courtyard at least half a kilometre long, through a great foyer, and through an enormous set of wooden doors into an even more enormous, by now almost-filled hall.

"HOGWARTS!" one of the Americans exclaimed.

The Hall of a Hundred Hearths did sort of look like Hogwarts, true, if Hogwarts had been blasted by dragonfire and left for the elements to further ravage, and been too expensive and expansive to maintain to any liveable standard. There weren't actually a hundred hearths – more like thirty-ish, only half of them blazing, but Saskia wasn't arsed to count – and there were two galleries above, but it was similar to the Great Hall of Hogwarts, only enormous and with a much bigger dais on which to seat the staff. The ceiling, too, looked like the night sky in places, but that was due to an old roof beginning to crumble and break off in some parts, and ruined by dragonfire in others. And the food on the tables. Gods, the _food_. Even that was an Hogwartsesque spread. Pie! Lemon bars! Entire roast chickens! Olives! Dornish plums! And more pie!

Hogwartsly, the pupils were divided into colour-coded houses that corresponded, more or less, to where they lived and, as they'd later learn, the class sections to which they were assigned. Saskia, Lucy, Orla, and Letty (who had returned whilst Saskia had been sleeping) were in Hawick, which was housed in the topmost floors of something called the Wailing Tower; that did explain the noise. The Hawick table was the one on the far left, to the front. Her assigned area did provide a good view of some of the staff, which would have been nice if she had had a raging crush on Daenerys, Brienne, Catelyn, Davos, Stannis, Tyrion (ew, he had no nose), or Sam, some of whom were ugly and all of whom were not Robb.

_Where's Robb, anyways_? Saskia mused as she sunk into her seat and helped herself to pie. Where was his beautiful, scruffy, gorgeous, honourable, perfect self? Where was her lord husband and one true love?! Would he even notice her amongst all these other girls? (Of course he would. They were destined to be together.) All of the sexy characters, it seemed, were missing from the high table. No Jaime, Bronn, Jon, Robb, Oberyn, or Ramsay, but essentially everyone else was present, as far as she knew.

Thinking no more of it for then, Saskia ate and looked to the papers that had been left on the table for her, consisting of a copy of the OFUW vows, a map of the campus, and her timetable for the first term.

Pupil: Crockett, Saskia Louise (#299)  
Disease: Mary Sue (Robb)  
Wailing Tower 1101  
Hawick

_Canon for Feeble-Minded Fanbrats_  
Samwell Tarly, Tyrion Lannister  
Mondays and Fridays, 8.00-10.00  
Tower of Dread 212

_Military Realism: or, Your Army Hasn't Got 50,000 Cavalry All with Valyrian Swords_  
Stannis Baratheon, Robb Stark  
Tuesdays and Thursdays, 3.00-5.30  
Tower of Ghosts 034

_Domestic Arts: Actually Acting a Lady_  
Sansa Stark, Catelyn Stark, Jeyne Westerling  
Mondays and Fridays, 13.15-14.15  
Widow's Tower 126

_Contemporary Issues in Westerosi Society_  
Jon Snow, various lecturers (TBD)  
Mondays and Wednesdays, 16.00-18.00  
Tower of Dread 209

_Slaying 101_ (choice of spear, sword, or bow)  
Oberyn Martell, Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, Ygritte  
Times and locations to be determined  
*Sign-ups for Slaying 101 are on Sunday morning at 7.00 in the armoury*

_Honour and Dignity for Twats_  
Brienne of Tarth, Davos Seaworth  
Tuesdays and Thursdays, 14.30-16.00  
Tower of Ghosts 115

_Mandatory Writing Workshop_  
Wednesdays, 13.00-14.30  
Widow's Tower 302

Meal times: 6.00-6.45, 12.00-12.45, 18.15-19.00

In case of emergency:  
Corpse Control (Sandor, Ser Jaime): Tower of Ghosts 028  
Infirmary (Maester Qyburn): Wailing Tower Vaults

Of note:  
1) University-approved clothing is to be worn at all times. PE kits are to be worn only in Slaying lessons or at other staff-approved times.

2) Staff quarters (in Kingspyre Tower) are strictly off-limits to pupils without a designated chaperone and the express written permission of both Lord Tywin and Miss Ellie.

3) You _must_ graduate in order to be permitted to continue writing fanfiction. No exceptions. Details on final graduation project[s] forthcoming.

"Oh, you've Military Realism at three?" Lucy asked, glancing at Saskia's timetable. "I've got the eight. I think Orla's with you."

"You're lucky, then, eh?" Attending lectures on warfare in a place called the Tower of Ghosts at three in the morning was not anywhere near to making it onto Saskia's list of things she'd ever like to do. What kind of university even offered lectures that early, besides? Groaning once again, she served herself more pie and ale. Pie and ale were sure to make anyone feel better.

"Good morning, sweet summer children," came a sickeningly kind voice from up front. Everyone quieted. Miss Ellie was, in fact, real, and was just as much of a miniature, bug-eyed Umbridge as Saskia had found her in England. She stood at a podium at the furthest end of the dais, surveying the absolute horde of sleep-deprived fangirls. "I hope you have been enjoying breakfast, courtesy of the Pie Master. For those of you who have not met me, I am Miss Ellie, coordinator and fanbrat wrangler. You are to see me for any trivial matters, as well as questions regarding timetables, modules, housing, excursions, and anything related to the running of this institution. May I introduce Tywin of House Lannister?"

Tywin Lannister was next to her. He looked very little like his show counterpart; he was still stone-faced and quietly terrifying, but was bald and had ridiculous blond sideburns that made him look just a bit like a cross between a biker and a mudkip. "As headmaster of this fine institution, it is my pleasure to welcome you to the Official Fanfiction University of Westeros. Let us begin by reviewing our vows."

_Reason gathers, and now my shame begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no disturbing liberties with canon, write no modern AUs, and ship no loathsome incest. I shall spout no pseudo-feminist bullshit and woo no canonical characters. I shall live and die in the ignominy I deserve. I am the fanbrat stalking Tumblr. I am the moron on the Pit of Voles. I am the twat who shames the realms of fanfiction. I pledge my life and education to the Official Fanfiction University of Westeros, for this day and all the days to come._

Tywin and Miss Ellie made them all repeat their vows another two times, to the displeasure of three hundred and nineteen sleepy pupils.

"Good," Miss Ellie smiled. "Again, a warm welcome. At the Official Fanfiction University of Westeros, we learn through pain, disappointment, punishment, and thorough torture. And no, Eve, no, Flannery, not the type of 'sexy' torture you imagine Ramsay Snow to inflict on those he… loves. We partake in no erotic flaying or dick-severing here."

"Ramsay BOLTON!" yelled a squat-faced, toadlike American at the Lothston table.

"All the same, Flannery. We do not flay, and anyone attempting to flay will be fed alive to Her Grace Daenerys Targaryen's dragons. That said, as part of our educational mission of teaching through disappointment, and as you might have noticed, none of you, and I repeat, _none of you_ , are your OCs, and none of you ever will be."

"But that's how an Official Fanfiction University works!" one of the distressed girls at the furthest table cried. "I'm Marylean Targaryen!"

"I'm Lenah!" someone moaned.

"I'm Morwenna!" Letty cried. "I'm the carpenter's daughter!"

At least a hundred others joined suit, weeping and whinging and insisting that they were indeed big-breasted, violet-eyed, raven-haired, sword-or-bow-wielding, and downright annoying Mary Sues. Most of the twenty-five or so male pupils present also raged, swearing that they were the extra and/or illegitimate sons of Tywin, Eddard, Robert, Balon, Rhaegar, and Stannis.

"Not this Official Fanfiction University, sweet summer children," Miss Ellie said sweetly. "And no, no, you are not. Tywin and I do not care how and why you lie on your enrolment forms. You are the insignificant fanbrats you are, and no more. You are Ilze Ziguzis, Carolina Nelson, Lettice Postlethwaite, and whoever else you were born on Earth."

"It's not fair!" Ilze cried.

"You do not need to be even twattier than you are already," Miss Ellie said. "Trust me on this. We will cure you of your desire to be, and you _will_ learn canon."

"There's nothing wrong with being a Mary Sue!"

Carolina, too, was adamant. "But I don't want to be cured! It's just a bit of fun!"

Tywin said, "Anyone can be reformed. Even you, Carolina Nelson. Even the most hopeless of you. One you have already met. To date, only one brat, Eleanor Eyland, has entered these doors for the offence of being more kill-happy than George RR Martin, to the point of recklessness and poor writing and characterisation. You are looking at Eleanor Eyland, who previously had never written a thousand-word one-shot without at least two major deaths. Remember this before you err. Miss Ellie Eyland has been reformed, however, and has since worked tirelessly in the education of brats like her former self. Full recovery is likely for you as well, should you complete your degree. You may find it possible to go on writing canon-based, literate stories with well-rounded characters and nary a Sue or Stu."

Saskia raised her hand. "Just because we write Mary Sues doesn't mean we're desperate or are morons."

Miss Ellie raised a pale eyebrow. "Really, now? Let's find out for certain." She lifted her eyes to the lower gallery above her, calling, "Lust objects, you may join us now."

Thus began the madness.

Several fangirls began whimpering and yowling like cats in heat when Jaime descended the stairs with Bronn ( _Oh my god, you think they're gay together?!_ _As gay as Robb and Jon and Theon?!_ Letty moaned to Saskia). Orla was squealing hysterically at Jaime coming to sit between Brienne and Bronn, because _oh my god Jaime and Brienne are, like, so cute together are they together are they married oh my god?!_ An Asian girl at their table insisted that, no, Jaime could not have Brienne because he would be having her, every night, for at least four hours at a time. Flannery and Eve insisted the same of Ramsay, who waved and winked at them, sending them into convulsions of lust that ended in drooling and in nasty, heart-stoppingly awkward moans and full-body shivers that made everyone in their vicinity shiver with disgust.

Carolina and a few other girls were squeeing over Bronn, in a manner only a wee bit more tame. Several fanbrats were fanning themselves as they watched Oberyn (he was _so_ much like Pedro Pascal, only sexier, if that were even possible) strutting down to sit with someone Saskia presumed to be Ellaria, who would be no object to a little bit of extra-relationship hanky panky, or so everyone who fancied Oberyn likely hoped. The noise in the hall reached a new, ear-splitting height when Jon Snow arrived and kissed Ygritte full on the lips to a serenade of jealous screeching.

"HANDS OFF MY JONNY BOY! HE'S _MY_ SWEET BOO-BOO LOVERCAKES! _MINE!_ " one of the yellow-clad Lothston girls, the most insistent of the Jon fanciers, wailed. The girl and too many others, Lucy included, were emitting noises so high-pitched and irritating that Saskia was compelled to take a massive swig of ale and a silent vow to loathe them all. _She_ was better than that kind of desperate behaviour. "JONNY-POO IS MINE! MINE! MINE!"

"Mine! Mine! Mine!" Lucy echoed until she choked on her tears and, in the throes of her tantrum, ended up with a faceful of lemon cakes when she threw her head toddleresquely down on the table.

"OH MY GOD, ROBB!" someone shrieked.

And there Robb suddenly was at the far end of the dais with Jon and a curly-haired brunette beside him. He wasn't Richard Madden, but he was glorious, he was gorgeous, he was Robb, he was Saskia's husband and lover and was just perfect. _Perfect_ , she whispered to herself, biting her lip _._ She had to struggle to keep her arse in her seat and fight the urge to run up to Robb and glomp and snog the hell out of him. But the woman beside him… was… was she holding a baby? An auburn-haired, adorable wee baby, maybe six months old and chubby and cute and kind of terrified of all the noise? That Lyalyah/Saskia did not birth? Did the woman just _kiss_ Robb and pass the fussing baby to him?

Saskia and far too many other fanbrats howled. Their hopes and dreams – and very lives, it seemed – had ended.

"NO NO NO NO NO!" was the only thing Saskia could manage through her sudden rush of tears.

"BUT I'M YOUR BABY MAMA, ROBBIE!"

"THAT AIN'T TALISA! WHERE'S TALISA? JEYNE WESTERLING IS A LIE!"

"JEYNE WESTERLING IS A BITCH! ROBB IS MINE!"

"ROBB, HOW DARE YOU! I AM YOUR INTENDED!"

"Baby Ned _is. not. canon!_ " rasped one of rare males, who was so slim, sunken-cheeked, crazy-eyed, ratty-mullet-haired, and balding that he kind of looked like the Cryptkeeper on speed. "Shame! D&D fanfiction at its worst! Wishful thinking of shownlies! Don't tell me the baby's going to learn to ride horses! That's pandering to female casuals at its finest!"

The Cryptkeeper's obsessive moanings were soon drowned out, however, by shrieks even louder than those of the resident Robb and Jon fangirls.

Two tiny grey dragons swooped down from the gallery, screaming, and flew directly to the girl who had called Jon her 'lovercakes', still weeping as she sent Olly-like glares towards the sexy object of her affection. She and one of her snivelling friends had risen, and were shuffling towards Jon, when the little dragons screamed in their faces and nipped at their arms, causing them to throw themselves to the ground in terror, sobbing even harder amidst the sudden, shocked silence in the hall.

"Rickerd, Benjyn, enough!" Daenerys called. "No eating!"

"Yes, it does seem as if the lot of you are desperate morons, in Saskia Crockett's own words. You in particular, Kayleigh Evans and Sophie Wells, for attempting to stampede Jon Snow. You are lucky that the mini dragons do not find you threatening enough to kill, it seems. Your behaviour, however, can and must be rectified," Tywin drawled. He turned to Daenerys, who was rewarding the dragons with bacon and snuggles. "Daenerys, perhaps it is time to show the pupils more of what awaits them if they do not correct their foolish comportment?"

* * *

_Yes, baby Ned exists because there should be some wishful happiness that makes fanbrats cry, and the show canon may sometimes leak here. Wait for the Sand Snakes. Teehee. Don't you want to watch little Ned Stark learn to ride horses? :3_


	4. Mother of Mini Dragons

Saskia had a thousand first-world-white-girl reasons to cry. It was cold. It was dark. Her blue underdress and ugly black pinafore were… well, ugly. Her feet hurt from unbroken-in boots. She'd not be getting any more sleep soon, for it was nigh on four now, second breakfast was at six, and she'd have to sign up for her final subject right after. All the pie she'd eaten was only making her sleepier. Lucy, beside her, had deplored her 'loss' of Jon Snow the entire walk to the barracks; too many other pupils were also inconsolable over trivial bullshit, but all the weeping was over, and the stillness of the night was punctuated with annoying sniffles and whimpers. And that walk was outside. Even colder, and, in the haste of getting dressed, she'd not thought to bring her new cloak.

And the man she loved, the man she was sure she could cherish and honour for all of eternity (okay, that was hyperbole), was apparently married. To someone who wasn't her, who wasn't even in the show. And they had an adorable child together.

And, most imminently, she was about to walk into a den of flying, fire-breathing, vicious death. The tiny comfort of doing so with the Mother of Dragons was barely a comfort at all.

Khaleesi was even more beautiful in person, and more so up close. Her hair was just so… _silvery-gold,_ like that metal shirt thing Bilbo had given Frodo, whatever that was called. Mirtil? Mittil? Something shiny and silvery, anyway, even in the light of the moon and a couple of torches. Khaleesi's eyes were the colour of faded violets – or that's how Saskia would describe Lyalyah's eyes, too, when they changed colour again. Khaleesi was gorgeous even now, waiting somewhat irritatedly for everyone to shut up and listen, and it looked as if almost all of the males present were straining to keep it in their pants at the mere sight of her. The Cryptkeeper's hoarse, phlegmy moans were particularly disturbing.

"Before we begin our tour, allow me to formally introduce myself. I am Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, D-A-E-N-E-R-Y-S T-A-R-G-A-R-Y-E-N, the First of Her Name, the Unburnt, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, Mother of Dragons, and Dragon Tamer at the Official Fanfiction University of Westeros. You will address me as Your Grace. My name is not Khaleesi. Khaleesi is not a name."

"My daughter's called Khaleesi Sansa," offered a girl in the front.

"Then she was born to at least one idiot fanbrat, Keisha Cole. Let us hope that little Khaleesi doesn't inherit her mother's lack of intelligence."

"The sooner you lot shut the cuntin' fuck up," Sandor barked, fumbling with the key to the barracks, "the sooner you go inside, and the sooner you see dragons."

Saskia did not want to see any more dragons. Not now, not ever.

"And that," Daenerys said, "is Sandor Clegane, S-A-N-D-O-R C-L-E-G-A-N-E, gravedigger and Corpse Control officer at OFUW. He is one of the most dangerous men in Westeros, and it is inadvisable to cross him. Should you perish, he will be responsible for the disposal of your remains."

(Saskia had, after much deliberation, settled on being cremated. By… someone terrified of fire. How exactly was _that_ sort of disposal going to work? She'd best not die, then.)

"That's nice to know," little Orla said tersely. "But is he in a relationship with Sansa?"

"You could've asked me that, not Her Grace," the Hound grunted, "and the answer's _no, and not Arya, either_. Fuck off, you shit."

Saskia could have sworn she saw Sandor jump a bit as he opened the door to fiery, dragony hell. As Daenerys led the pack of brats forward, he slinked off as stoically and quietly as possible, leaving the door ajar.

Daenerys Targaryen was indeed the mother of dragons— one hundred and fifty-four poorly-trained, spoilt, and blood-thirsty, bacon-hungry mini dragons, to be precise, that were a little too interested in the procession of fanbrats visiting them before dawn. Dragons were also, frankly, fucking terrifying. Their bodies were about the size of a human newborn, and would grow no larger, but their wingspans were easily thrice that. And they were _everywhere_ in the massive barracks reserved for their upkeep— in the rafters, on the tables, on the floor, nestled in armchairs, fighting each other in a pit of half-eaten pig carcasses that stunk to high heaven, lounging on hay bales, perched in the windows, flying in and out of the gaping hole in the roof, and one, soon enough, landed on an unfortunate boy's shoulder.

He was in awe— at Daenerys or the dragons, Saskia couldn't tell. Maybe a bit of both. She doubted that baby dragons could make anyone weak-kneed (but, of course, that must've been someone's nasty fetish), although there _was_ an overfed, onyx-scaled dragon perched on his shoulder, nuzzling his friend's mop of black hair. His friend was just as awed. Saskia was sure her own knees and bowels would give out in such close proximity to fire made flesh. Even now, with the nearest dragon a good two metres away and not at all interested in her, her heart was pounding something furious.

"Samwise can sense readers, Jay, Edrick," Daenerys said to them, smiling as Samwise nudged Jay's head before taking off to join his black brothers in the rafters. "All of my babies can also," she said, pointing out two enormous yellow dragons clamouring to get up a poor ginger girl's skirts as she whimpered and failed to kick them away, "sense when you are, ah, having your moon blood. They do like the smell. Try not to anger them when you must swat them away. Greger, Gragor, let Sophie Jones be."

Saskia sickened at the realisation. When was her period due again? Two weeks-ish, maybe. She couldn't tell without the requisite app for that, but hopefully it would never come in Westeros, much less ever again. But if Robb got her with child, she wouldn't have to deal with the dragons at all… right? Right? She was not about to ask Khaleesi. Daenerys.

Greger and Gragor stopped immediately, baring their teeth at Sophie and their mother. A great grey dragon swooped down in defence and settled into Daenerys' arms. At this, the Cryptkeeper and several other males groaned (because hot, powerful women and powerful, hopefully-not-seen-as-hot dragons were an incredible recipe for sexiness).

"Do stop that infernal noise, Archibald Hockins." Daenerys kissed the dragon's head as it burrowed itself in her embrace. "This is my dear Sir Bariston, misspelt S-I-R B-A-R-I-S-T-O-N, properly spelt S-E-R B-A-R-R-I-S-T-A-N. Repeat that after me: S-E-R B-A-R-R-I-S-T-A-N. Sir Bariston and _these_ ," Daenerys said, nodding towards the horde of tiny dragons, "are the Official Fanfiction University of Westeros' security. Every time you misspell a character's name, one of _these_ is born. You do not want any more of them born. Yes, they are cute, and Sir Bariston is the cutest, but they are adorable now because their mother's presence placates them. When I am not around, there is no telling what they may do. One of these is capable of crisping you in minutes should you attempt anything stupid."

"Define stupid," said the Asian girl Saskia recognised from the Hawick table.

"Likely anything you are wont to do, Amy Moore," Daenerys replied. "The mini dragons can and will attack should you attempt to harm or stampede the staff, as you have seen. What they perceive to be harm, mind, may well be different to what you believe it to be, although you are undeniably safe with insults and doomed should you attempt to kill us or them. Death by dragon has historically been the most common manner of death at this university, and it is neither quick nor painless. My babies will singe you enough to wither and blacken your skin and your flesh, and nip at the parts not too toasty for their liking. They are always hungry for fatty bits. If the burns, nibbling, shock, and blood loss do not kill you, Maester Qyburn's treatments most certainly will."

"Ew," was all that Saskia managed to choke.

As Daenerys explained, her babies tended to have the personalities of their properly-spelt namesakes. Sandore in particular was exceptionally cantankerous and had a fondness for chicken, Salsa acted a finicky and independent cat, Sir Bariston and Jamie were noble and efficient killers, and Cercei was not unknown to dive headlong into barrels of wine, ruining it for everyone else. John Snow was perpetually confused, Thormund was incapable of flight because its member was too large and functioned as a sort of kickstand, Balloon Greyjoy was crotchety, and Joarh Mormunt was utterly devoted to and defensive of his mother, his queen, to the point of getting so underfoot that she had to contain him more often than not.

Daenerys smiled sweetly, stroking Sir Bariston's scaly head. "Would anyone care for a demonstration of Sir Bariston's abilities? Any suicidal volunteers?"

The answer was unanimous. "NO!"

"You're a mad, hideous, pus-weeping cunt of a woman," Eve declared. None of the dragons moved to strike, and Eve, satisfied, smirked and crossed her arms. "Guess they're fine with that, then."

"Her Grace did say insults would be," Jay said.

"Try slapping her," Letty whispered to Eve and an obese Tumblr brat with cat-eye glasses and a fauxhawk so blue it outblued her underdress.

Daenerys was not amused. "That is no way to eliminate those you perceive to be in competition with you, Lettice Postlethwaite. Eve Ludden, that is no way to address your queen. If you dare disrespect me again, I will command my children to burn you alive. All of them."

The Tumblrina raised her hand, trembling. "Khaleesi? Your Grace? How are we supposed to know how to spell without spellcheck and Google?!"

"Reading, Hannah Quinn. If you cannot read, or are less than inclined to do so, Princess Shireen Baratheon is more than willing to teach you. Shireen and Davos' reading circle is held every Tuesday and Saturday after supper in the library, should any of you decide to actually read the books. If you do not read them there, you will be reading them anyway. Sam Tarly and Jon Snow hold a History and Lore discussion circle every Sunday morning from eight until noon, should that interest you."

A mass grumbling of discontent seized the fangirls. _What's the point of reading all of the books if there likely won't be graphic descriptions of Robb's arse in the last few?! How plump's it? The arse, not the books,_ Saskia thought. Others moaned similar complaints. _Are there sex scenes with Robb?! And Talisa?! And me, in a 'choose your own adventure' way?! Does Jon get nakie in a cave, and how big is his penis cos we never got to see his penis?! Why are the books so big? I'd read them if they were comics. On a scale of one to ten, how sexy is book Oberyn?! Twelve? Will he be my champion, too?! Can I get a TL;DR?_

"I've already read them," Jay said. "They're amazing."

Edrick agreed wholeheartedly.

"The first chapter was good," Saskia croaked, warily watching Samwise overhead to ensure he didn't swoop on her. To her relief, he did not, but he was watching her with cold, dark eyes.

Many brats in the horde had turned to glare at either Edrick, Jay, or Saskia. How dare anyone be literate, it seemed.

"And once you are done with _A Song of Ice and Fire_ ," Daenerys continued at last, "there's an entire _World of Ice and Fire_ for you to enjoy. There are the Dunk and Egg tales, too. And _A Song of Ice and Fire_ cookbooks. And _The Princess and the Queen_ and _The Rogue Prince_. And _A Song of Ice and Fire_ again, and again, and again. We have in-canon texts as well, should anyone wish to read such works as _The Seven-Pointed Star_ and the White Book."

"What's that?" Lucy asked, wrinkling her nose.

"Books _,_ " huffed Jay.

"No, _that_! That noise! That smell!"

"What—"

Near everyone turned when they noticed it— an immense shadow rolling up to the entrance to the barracks, accompanied by a discordance of beeps that made Sir Bariston scream and hiss. There sat an equally immense man in a too-tight aqua tunic that had ridden up to reveal his hairy, expansive gut flab. With him came a cloud of yeasty, beefy, cheesy stink so strong that Daenerys, twenty metres away, had to let Sir Bariston go to hold her sleeve over her face.

"Behold," Daenerys gagged, "Lord Wyman Manderly, W-Y-M-A-N M-A-N-D-E-R-L-Y, Lord of White Harbor, Warden of the White Knife, Shield of the Faith, Defender of the Dispossessed, Lord Marshal of the Mander, Knight of the Order of the Green Hand, and Pie Master at the Official Fanfiction University of Westeros, loyal to House Stark, and gallingly insistent."

"Who?!" blurted pretty much every fanbrat present.

Saskia would have suggested that Daenerys add 'too fat to breathe' to the man's description, for he was, disgustingly and loudly so. He was seated upon a mobility scooter with the seat caving in, so much that its raised sides and arm rests were digging into his own bulbous sides. The thing was emitting strange fizzing noises and now, also, loud, relentless beeps as he urged it forward. It seemed, though, that the scooter could scoot no further due to its rider's colossal weight, yet Lord Whoever pressed it on, attempting to wheeze something over the blaring of his noble steed and the shrieks of a hundred fleeing, hissing, fire-breathing mini dragons. Even Sir Bariston the Bold was not bold enough to face this massive foe.

Daenerys, it seemed, was used to this, and pushed her way through the crowd of brats. Wyman's scooter _bbffppffpfeeeep_ ed as it came to a sudden, cacophonous halt, and was silent. For a moment, all was still, all for the rustling of wings of dragons yet fleeing, until Daenerys spoke.

"For the last time, Lord Manderly, _no_. You cannot have any more children, and you cannot, and will _never_ , eat my dragons."

The furious scootypuff beeping resumed as Wyman wheezed and gesticulated, his rolls and rolls of bingo wing fat undulating with each laboured movement. Even from a good distance away, Saskia could see his pockmarked, cellulitic flesh rippling in a way she didn't suppose a body could actually move. Then again, she supposed, once you got past a certain weight, you were more blob than body, anyways.

"I do not care that they are a delicacy in Yi Ti. We have gone over this many times before. You cannot eat my dragons."

_Beeeeeeeeeeeeeep beeeeeeeeeep beeeeeeeeeeeep beeudiysfdsuhseeeeep bwwwewjsdfdeeeep ppppr pppprrrrbbbbbeeeeep._

And with that, Wyman set the thing in reverse and began puttering away with a last very cross look to Daenerys, gasping something incomprehensible and fat-choked as he went. He shook the one fist he wasn't using to urge on his scooter at Sophie Jones and Sophie Wells, who got in his way and laughed at him. So went Lord Wyman of the House Manderly of… Somewhere Unimportant. So departed the Warden of Something. So scooted away the Pie Master of the Official Fanfiction University of Wes—

Saskia suddenly felt her stomach heave. Pie Master. Who had apparently eaten children and wanted to eat dragons. _Pie Master_. Miss Ellie had said the pie they'd just had for breakfast was courtesy of the Pie Master. Wyman. _That thing._

"Khaleesi? Your Grace?" Saskia cried, shaking. "That's the _cook_?!"


	5. A Pedagogy of Torture

Wyman Manderly was, indeed, the cook; Daenerys took great delight in informing the pupils of this delicious fact. Lord Manderly's kitchen, too, was staffed by Thenns, as he was so blobular that he couldn't do most of the actual cooking himself. Saskia and many others threw up right then and there, and swore off ever eating pies again. Daenerys assured them that it'd been actual chicken pie with no fangirl chunks – weren't half the staff members eating it as well, herself included? But that mattered little. Saskia and essentially everyone else would be boycotting pie. And meat. And… anything that could possibly have been cooked with flesh that was not obviously, like, a whole bird or anything.

Not that they would have the chance to stage a silent protest or think too much on it, though. Second breakfast consisted of tea and a measly slice of visibly stale, mouldering bread per person – not that anyone really touched it – and then it was off to the armoury to sign up for Slaying.

Lucy signed up for Oberyn's spearfighting lessons. Stabby-stabby twirl sticks were cool, Oberyn was hot (but not as hot as Jon Snow), and it would be obvious, she'd wagered, if she took archery in order to impress or somehow get closer to Jon. There would have to be other, less-predictable ways of getting to the gormless bastard, ones hopefully related to her rack. Plus, if Lucy really wanted to get laid, Oberyn was much less fanatical about honour, and would, despite Ellaria being about, be much more likely to touch her than Jon. Saskia had settled on archery because it meant no running, no exertion at all (you just stood there and shot straw things), and she was sure Robb wouldn't feel she was trying to impress him like he might If she took up the sword. She had Lucy to thank for that idea. Orla had gone her own insistent, fangirlish way and signed up for Bronn's sword lessons with that girl Carolina down the hall, in hopes that Jaime would stop in often at the lessons he was no longer allowed to teach for not having a sword hand. Letty, too, chose archery, for the sole reason that Katniss Everdeen was awesome.

* * *

Finally, ultimately, at fucking last, Saskia could sleep.

She dreamt of Robb.

Robb in a garden amongst the eyes of death, the poppies, Jeyne's swollenly grotesque corpse at his feet, waiting for Saskia to take him and love him amidst the summer flowers because corpses and gardens were kind of romantic in weird dreams, she guessed. Robb, bare-chested and tousled and perfect and wind-kissed and even more perfecter than ever, as in that .gif she missed watching loop ad infinitum. Robb, clad only in britches and boots, awaiting her in the pink silken sheets of a featherbed, awaiting her touch, her kisses, her love, a love that would last for all of eternity.

And Robb, Robb, handsome, honourable, perfect, manly Robb, holding her in his lap, letting her wrap her Sueish pale arms around his neck, letting her kiss his stubbly, chiselled cheeks as he mmffed with pleasure and stroked her arse as she straddled him.

"We're meant to be," she breathed.

"I love you, Lyalyah," he whispered into the crook of her neck. "I will always, always love you."

"Oooh, Robbie, I'll love you forever."

She was leaning down to kiss him, savouring his breath against her—

_BANG. BANG._

"You are mine, my love," Robb was whispering—

_BANG. BANG. BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG. BANG._

Saskia woke to the sounds of something quite heavy bludgeoning something also heavy. Banging was, she thought groggily, turning over to hold her flimsy pillow over her head and sending one weary hand out to pat the empty half of her bed for sexy wee Robbie (who wasn't there, to her immense disappointment), no better than a vuvuzela applied directly to the ear.

"Robb. No. Umdsfdskfsdmmfff. Ramsay," Saskia groaned, rubbing her eyes. "The fuck?"

Ramsay Snow was nowhere to be seen. Orla and her mess of sandy blond curls came into very blurry view as Saskia rolled over and opened her eyes. Orla was standing teeteringly on a rather rotten chair in front of the toilet door, banging a sheet of parchment into the wooden door. In lieu of a hammer, she was using Letty's new hardcover copy of _A Dance with Dragons,_ and was in no way being gentle to the innocent book.

"The fuck you doing?" Saskia mumbled, straining to sit up.

"Posting an agenda, a to-do list. A list of things that must be accomplished, if you will. Went 'round earlier, asking 'round, and nothing here's to my standards."

"At… whatever time it is now?"

Orla shrugged, clambering down off the chair. "Half past five in the evening, sleepyhead. Thought I'd get it through whilst Letty and Lucy were down at Flannery's. I got you up in time for supper, on the bright side."

Baths? Saskia had been so knackered and busy and ill and such to realise she'd not bathed or brushed her teeth in days, and that she probably reeked of sick, straw, and ale. There were baths? She'd soon be visiting those.

"What're you accomplishing, then?" she said sleepily.

Orla grinned. "Come see for yourself."

Whimpering and rubbing her eyes again, Saskia heaved herself to her feet and shuffled over to the door. This had better be a Nobel Prize-worthy document to be worth getting noisily woken up for.

And… it was not a Nobel Prize-worthy document. It was a mess that read, in shiny urple ink (where did Orla even _find_ shiny urple ink?), in ridiculously flowery cursive,

**ORLA'S LIST: TO DO**  
-Jaime and Brienne get married  
-Jon and Ygritte have a baby  
-Tyrion and Sansa reconcile  
-Sandor and Sansa get together  
ﾟ･✿ヾ╲(｡◕‿◕｡)╱✿･ﾟ

Complete, of course, with boxes to tick off and a hand-drawn Japanese emoticon.

"I didn't add Robb and Jeyne because they're already perfect," Orla added as Saskia read, "or Arya and Gendry, cos they're not here. But Arya and Gendry would be reuniting, starting their own faceless sellsword company, sitting on the Iron Throne, and having three sons."

_Jeyne and Robb are already perfect?_ No. _She_ and Robb were perfect.

"So you want SanSan and Sansa/Tyrion?" Saskia asked pointedly. "How's that going to work?"

"If Sansa and the Imp can't work things out between them, or even if they can, he'll graciously let her free to marry Sandor. Duh," the Irish girl said, rolling her eyes. "And with some talking and counselling, they'll all agree to one or the other."

"And how are you… uh, forcing the baby thing?"

"Harrenhal Tea Party. Like the kind in Boston I saw a documentary about on YouTube, except with all moon tea around and in the stream in the godswood."

A clearly brilliant plan, to be certain.

"Oh, uh, brilliant. Do you even know where to find moon tea, what it is, or what it even looks like?"

"No. But I know what it does."

"Still won't guarantee a baby. Or anything other than poisoning a bunch of fish."

Orla narrowed her green eyes. "It's a start."

" _Jaime and Brienne get married_ ," Saskia read. "I mean, they're cute and all, but what're you going to do, pin Brienne down in that bombed-out sept and force her to swear eternal love and devotion to Jaime? There's not even a septon here."

"Well, no, I'd never manage that," Orla smiled, her lips twitching slightly. "The godswood will do."

"She's easily twice your size."

"I'll go for a more subtle approach."

"Like?"

"Like talking to her all the time, and mentioning my Jaime all the time, and how honourable and sweet and perfect he is. Well, I guess he's not my Jaime, because I know I'll never have him just as you'll never have Robb and Ruby'll never have Oberyn. And I can ask for tutoring after lessons, and arrange for Jaime to come tutor me there too, and not tell either of them, so they'll both be working with me. And making eyes at each other. And they'll not be able to leave, most like. And over months and months, they'll realise they were meant to be, if they're not learning that already. They _are_ meant to be. Forever. For always. For _eternity_ ," Orla whined, "and maybe I have to help them see that."

_Like you'll never have Robb?_ The words, of course, were probably true, Saskia thought, remembering Jeyne and Robb and the kiss they'd shared, and wee baby Ned. But they hurt, whether or not Orla meant for them to hurt. They hurt like a bitch, like a knife in her heart; as cliché as that was, it was just as true.

Saskia snorted. "That's not subtle. You clearly have no idea what you're doing if that's your idea of how to get people together, much less if that's your idea of love."

Orla snorted right back. "Someone's a pessimist and a hypocrite."

"Hypocrite?"

"It's yours too, isn't it? _Oooooh, Robbie, we're meant to be. Oooooh, Robbie, I'll love you forever, forever, forever,_ " Orla yammered. She couldn't drop her Rs and sucked at mocking Saskia's accent. "You talk in your sleep."

Saskia could feel her cheeks burning. "I'm _not_ a hypocrite. And I _don't_ talk in my sleep."

"Oh, really?"

"I'm _not_ a hypocrite, but I _am_ a realist. You can't just force people to fall in love or have babies or settle their differences and have uncanonically happy marriages. Tyrion's father helped orchestrate the murder of Sansa's mother and brother, and it's not like the Lannisters had nothing to do with her father's death. There's no way that's working. Even lemon cakes couldn't fix Sansa's angst, remember?"

"In canon," Orla said sweetly. "Not here. This isn't really canon, is it? In case you've not noticed, Robb and Catelyn are alive. I just want to help them all take things to the next level. And if not, there's SanSan."

Saskia huffed. "That's not the point of us coming here."

"Says who, goody-goody Robb-fancying hypocrite?"

"Says me. Says Miss Ellie and Lord Tywin and everyone," she snapped. "Now where are the baths?"

"Down the corridor, last door on the right," Orla sang as Saskia gathered her shoes and a change of clothes. "Hope you don't mind hairy spiders. They're everywhere. It's gross."

"Fuck you."

Saskia hadn't meant to say it, but she did, she definitely did.

There _were_ hairy spiders all over the wooden stalls separating the ratchet brass tubs – and, maybe, they were likely all over her own room, too – but she was too upset to care about spiders. What were spiders against the destruction of her dreams and her fantasies, and being woken up, annoyed, and called out? She could hear Lucy, a few doors down, shrieking something maddening, of course featuring a repetition of "mine" – so likely something relating to her preferred lust object and Orla's list – so she wasn't the only one lustful and obsessed and kind of stupid, right? She was just as brilliant as Orla when it came to love and getting Robb's attention, wasn't she? _And just as desperate, too_ , she thought.

She drew her knees up to her chest, half-assedly scrubbing her legs with the manky old brush in the tub. She felt so small. No one could take Robb from her. Not Jeyne, not Orla, not Letty or Ilze, not anyone else who fancied him. Not even Robb could pry himself away from her, or would be able to once he realised how much he could love her. Would he ever love her, though?

_Yes. No, no, no,_ she wept into her knees. _Yes._

* * *

The next morning, after being vuvuzela-ed by Ramsay and sitting through an uneaten but much screamed-at breakfast of rosehip tea and barely-boiled sea lamprey mouths that would have been Instagrammed with the hashtags "wtf" and "thisiswhatmyuniscanteencallsbreakfast" by a good percentage of the girls present had they not been in Westeros, the pupils proceeded to their first lessons of the term. Orla, tittering with excitement that Saskia wanted to punch the hell out of her, scurried off to Brienne's honour lesson with Ilze and Amy, and Letty, Lucy, and Saskia proceeded to Tyrion and Sam's.

"Canon for Feeble-Minded Fanbrats?" Saskia said to Lucy as they settled into the only available pair of seats in the front. "Do they really think we're that daft, now?"

She nodded. "And Hannah says that's _ableist_ , callin' us feeble-minded."

"Yes, Miss… Crockett, is it? We are inclined to think you lot so stupid," a voice said, "based on the… interesting things you write."

Tyrion Lannister, short and noseless and scarred and stubby, sat at the desk at the front, downing what was likely nowhere near his first goblet of wine and immediately pouring himself another from a half-empty carafe at least twice the size of his head. Saskia hadn't noticed him or Sam, standing awkwardly by the window, and she'd no idea how she could _not_ have seen Sam, given his size and his ugly Twisted Sister shoulder pad things.

"How do you know what we write?" Letty wondered. "You've not got accounts on FanFiction."

Tyrion waved a handful of papers at them. "These. Your super-secret files. We have them on all of you, and update them regularly with each fanfic you write. Miss Ellie has a system."

"Prove it," Carolina challenged.

"Gladly. Always a pleasure to bask in your failures," Tyrion said, hoisting himself up to sit on his desk, thumbing through the pile. "Ah. A magical Mary Sue and Jon. So _inventive_ , Miss Hothersall. If only Fiorella Sand were somehow a wildling faerie princess like the rest of them. What is a magician's apprentice from Dorne even doing north of the Wall, and how is she Mance Rayder's daughter? Another Mary Sue and Robb, courtesy of Miss Crockett. So insipid and poorly-written it isn't even worth a comment. Are you not studying Literature, Miss Crockett? Shame. A Mary Sue and Bronn— though this one's well-written and has Bronn in character, and is witty, it does not excuse you, Miss Nelson. Perhaps you should apply your talents elsewhere. A Mary Sue and Ramsay, who is also fucking and torturing his favourite stinking pet, courtesy of Miss Marchant, who does not understand that riding a freshly-flayed cock rubbed with vinegar is not in any way pleasurable for either party."

Sam looked as if he were going to be ill, but pressed Tyrion on. "Go on, Lord Tyrion. There's worse in there. I was readin' 'em before."

"A high school retelling of an Arya/Jon/Jaqen/Gendry love decahedron with a side of SanSan and Brojen. What were you thinking, Miss Taylor? Rather, what weren't you thinking? Another Mary Sue and Robb, although at least this one's fallen to Westeros from bumfuck Namibia like girls fall to Middle Earth. That's hardly ever done in this wreck of a fandom. Oh, and you've written a Legolas one, too. Why, Miss Cloete, why? _For all Jaime knew, Moon Boy was the best lover in Westeros._ Jaime and… Moon Boy, Miss Whenlock? Which one of you is Miss Whenlock? Come on, now. No need to be afraid."

A mousy girl in the first row, in the far corner, shyly raised her hand. Saskia thought she looked so small and sweet, almost a bit like a brown-eyed Shireen without weird scaly thingies on her face, and definitely not like someone who would write explicit Jaime/Moon Boy smut, whoever Moon Boy was.

"I cannot decide if that is more sickening or hilarious. I should send you to the shame septa, but my lord father would rather not have you miss your first day."

"You satisfied now?" Sam asked.

"Ew, shut _up_ , neckbeard hamplanet," said Keisha, wrinkling her nose at Sam. "Tyrion was talking!"

"I killed an Other," he said proudly. "Have you?"

Keisha didn't even acknowledge his response. "You'd be so _sexy_ ," she sighed to Tyrion, "if only you had a nose."

"Lost it in battle. A pity you find me unattractive," he said with mock sadness. "We could have had it all, Miss Cole."

"We still can," she breathed. "A prosthetic. Get one. And… and I'll not mind it. And I'll love you all night long, and longer after…"

Tyrion took a huge swig of wine. "I will pass on that. But will you – all of you – pass this most important subject?"

Everyone remained silent.

"That… that wasn't a rhetorical question," Sam pointed out. "He was really askin' you."

"Yes," they dutifully, grumblingly answered.

Tyrion forced a crooked smile and poured himself more wine. "Good. We'll not have anyone _failing_ , and we'll get right to work, won't we, Samwell? First, an activity. Directions are in the folders we'll give you, and Sam will pair you up."

Saskia was paired with Sara, a dark-haired, dark-eyed Italian girl from Verona who was normal and nice enough, if only a little too quick to get shippy ( _I can't wait for Arya and Gendry to happen! So meant to be!_ , she'd squeed when she picked up Arya's photo, completely ignoring the fact that, in the show, Gendry had been on a rowboat he could barely row for at least months and was likely dead or just made irrelevant). Saskia had no idea how and why Tyrion and Sam were even able to get stills from the show. It wasn't all unlike a normal activity or lesson at her old secondary school back home in Wiltshire, except, you know, taught by fictional people and for the eventual purposes of writing fanfiction that didn't rupture canon or make anyone's eyes bleed.

"Good morning, summer children. Good morning, Tyrion."

Saskia glanced up. Lord Tywin Lannister, looking especially heartless-mudkip-esque today in a blue tunic, had unexpectedly arrived.

Tyrion looked to Sam, who looked just a bit perplexed, then to his father, as he dumped out the remainder of his wine behind the desk. "Ah. Good morning, Father. What brings you to my classroom so early?"

"As headmaster, it is my duty to observe my staff."

"On… on the first day of term? During the first lecture?" Sam asked nervously as Tywin made his way through the aisles, half-sneering at the pupils.

"What lecture? You are not lecturing."

"Do not mind my lord father," Tyrion called to the fanbrats. "Keep working. The gods know you need to be."

"What is _this_?" Tywin said with utter revulsion, looking down over Saskia and Sara's shoulders at their pictures and cut-outs. "Art? Art has no place in a classroom for fanbrats, Tyrion, Samwell."

"It's a learnin' activity, my lord," Sam spoke as if it were obvious, "on who's who as the books begin, as most of them have only seen the show. They'll be readin' for homework."

Tywin raised an eyebrow. "What are learning activities and what are they doing at this institution?"

"They're matchin' characters from the programme with artistic depictions of us in the books, and those papers are written descriptions of us that they're matchin', too. They'll be copying the descriptions to our names in their notebooks once they've finished. The pupils are enjoyin' it, you see."

They might indeed have been enjoying it more than they would have enjoyed being yelled at for two hours first thing in the morning after a terrifying and inadequate breakfast, but some were not getting it at all. Sophie Jones and Sophie Wells had both confused Theon for Robb, and the former Sophie could not grasp the difference between Maester Luwin and Maester Aemon. Keisha was sure that Varys was really a woman and that Tyrion was a secret Targaryen. Kayleigh had no idea who Lyanna was (Ned's sister-lover, Jon's mother, and the beloved of that dead Targaryen who was totally Daenerys' dad and the fat king guy, Carolina assured and further confused her before Tyrion could step in to scold her for her insolence). Taylor and Lilanie thought that Ramsay was Jon's long-lost brother, and some brown-haired Australian (Keeley or Kelly or something) was frustratedly trying to explain bastard surnames to them and getting nowhere.

"Oh, no, that's Jory Cassel," Sara whispered, grabbing a photo from Saskia's hand. "The guy Jaime stabbed in the eye?"

"Who?"

"Rodrik's nephew."

"Who's Rodrik?"

"Master-at-arms of Winterfell. He has braidy mudkip-face like Tywin."

"And what, Samwell, is the point of such an activity that cannot be found in a lecture from the experts in the classroom?"

Sam tried to explain, bumblingly, that it was something Brienne had shown him, and involved getting pupils involved in their own education instead of forcing them to be passive and lectured at. That was very bad, apparently, according to Brienne, because it devalued pupils, their pre-existing knowledge, and their own experiences, and bored them furthermore. Involving the wee morons in tasks and activities was kind of like how the Slaying and Domestic Arts teachers operated, Sam explained, by having pupils actually do things, and it was all right for them to learn by sewing samplers and shaking pointy sticks at each other, wasn't it?

Tywin was having none of it. "In future, you will sit the brats down, tell them what is and is not canon, assign them work, correct that work, correct their behaviour should they be out of line, and be done with it."

"Brienne says that studies have shown that such a pedagogy is harmf—"

"The only pedagogy in place at the Official Fanfiction University of Westeros is a pedagogy of torture, and you will remember that in future, Samwell Tarly, should you wish to retain your position here."

Sam looked down. "Yes, my lord."

"Maester Aemon is not at Winterfell, and Maester Luwin is not a Targaryen," Tywin seethed, glaring over the Sophies' mismatched photos. "And that is Theon Greyjoy."

"Reek!" Flannery hissed.

"We would be more willing to listen to your suggestions if you could tell the difference between Loras and Lancel. You clearly cannot."

Flannery thought a moment, poring over the show photos. They _looked_ kind of different, didn't they? "One of them's gay? But they're both Lannisters and blond?"

"No, Flannery Marchant. No. Loras is of the House Tyrell, and Lancel suffers from no such perversions," Tywin turned to Tyrion. "And _that_ is why you will stop drinking at once, and sit them down and yell at them, starting immediately. They are fanbrats through and through, and they are not clever enough to reason. They have no background in canon that does not involve attractive men or bedroom matters."

"And that is why we _are_ teaching them," Tyrion objected, "if only you would let us."

"I will be seeing no such progressive educational methods in your lessons this afternoon, Tyrion, or ever again. Is that understood?"

"Oh, yes, _very_ much understood."

"And less wine. Much less wine."

With one long last pointed look to Tyrion, Lord Tywin was gone.

* * *

I hope Orla, our main SanSan shipper, is sufficiently annoying, and I hope Saskia is, too, to an extent. Orla's a sixteen-year-old version of my own chronically bored, immature, idiotic thirteen-year-old self. I gave Orla the OTPs I like […to murder half the time] and SanSan [which I loathe], and too much pluck and insistence, and set her at giving them all a very naïve idea of happiness when, really, it's happy enough that they're all alive in this fic. She's kind of me and she makes me twitch. Fear not: Orla's not crossing off everything on her list, if anything at all, because too many sappy endings would only provoke me to outMartin George RR Martin.


	6. Needlework

Saskia was sure that she was going to die of boredom in Domestic Arts, particularly because today's lesson was _You're a Lady, Now Sew and Like It_ , courtesy of Catelyn, Sansa, and Jeyne. She'd never been one to fuss over ladies or princesses, or wish to be one – her nine-year-old sister Tillie's Elsa obsession more than made up for the entirety of her own childhood indifference to anything that wasn't _Harry Potter_ – and she'd never been one to care for crafting unless it involved poring over craft books and never doing any of the projects they contained. She wasn't one to feel comfortable in the presence of dragons, either. In lieu of Sandor's protection (as Sandor in the same vicinity as Sansa at this point in the school year, when no one was reformed, was not advisable), and in lieu of Jaime's (he was off guarding and watching Tommen at his private lessons with Bronn, because _aww_ ), there were way too many mini dragons present. Peter Balish, Obreyn, Bryenn, Edmule, Salsa, Sharine, Gendrie, Rheager, and Sandore – the most cantankerous of all – hovered around the sewing circle, gnawing on bones that looked oddly human femur-like.

Fanfiction-wise, she'd also never been one to care that much for Sansa as, it seemed, most of the other girls in her class did. Sansa, in turn, didn't seem to care that much for her pupils, and sat straight-backed and regally in her chair, focussed on her own embroidery when not assisting anyone with their own work.

Sansa's mother Catelyn – Lady Stark – was tough as nails, fiercely protective, and stronger than Valyrian steel. With Sansa and Jeyne and wee Ned, though, it was clear that she was sweet and warm, a devoted mother and grandmother. But she was also, it seemed, kind of a bitch, at least to Saskia and the other pupils, and ruled her classroom with stern looks and an intolerance for unladylike, Sueish behaviour. This is how you hold a sampler, Catelyn had taught them. This is how you thread a needle. This is how you make a running stitch; now stitch along these lines for the remainder of the hour, preferably in total silence. This is how you bore yourself to death, as far as Saskia knew and thought, digging her needle and brown thread in and out of the fabric, and stabbing herself half the time.

"I LOVE YOU, SANSA!" Keisha wept in thanks for Sansa's help in correcting her very shoddy-looking stitches. "MY DAUGHTER'S CALLED KHALEESI SANSA IN YOUR HONOUR!"

"I _hate_ you, Sansa," the girl next to Saskia muttered, well out of earshot of the one for whom it was intended. "Such a cunt to my sweet Petyr, after all he's done for you and your mother."

"Creepy things. He's even got a paedostache," Saskia whispered.

"ARE YOU IN A RELATIONSHIP WITH SANDOR?!" Orla inevitably cried.

"No," Sansa said coolly, picking up her own embroidery again and giving Orla a quick 'I'm sick of your bullshit' stare, "I am not in a relationship with Sandor. I never have been, and I _won't_ be. My marriage to Tyrion has not yet been annulled."

Orla pouted, and looked very much like a cross little bulldog when she did so. "But it will be, right?! And you _should_ be with Sandor!"

"With Petyr!" the girl next to Saskia hissed.

"Sandor!"

"No, Jon! And Robb!" said Letty.

"Tyrion!"

"Benedict Cumberbatch!"

"Theon!"

"Margaery!"

"Legolas and Thorin and Bilbo and Smaug!"

"Sandor!"

"A tractor and a Zamboni!" said the Jaime/Moon Boy girl.

"Eponine!"

"Rhaegar Targaryen!"

"Varys!" ( _Bitch, he's not got any genitals,_ Eve had to point out to Amy.) "But he can love her with his flippers!"

"No, _Sandor_!"

"Yes, _Sandor_!"

"Sandor!"

Many of the other girls nodded and tittered, squeeing about just how cute their OTP and the unkiss were. A fair lot of them also bitched about Sansa not running off with Sandor right this instant, or ever, because they were absolutely the best ship ever, and it totally wasn't creepy at all for a crabby, thirty-something-year-old not-knight with half his face burnt off and considerable anger issues to go running all over the Riverlands, romancing and fucking a thirteen-year-old. Sansa, now, looked to be about seventeen or eighteen or so, but it was still a rather creepy thought.

"There is to be no gossiping or whinging about your ships, girls. It is uncouth and unladylike, as is shouting, Miss Dwyer, Miss Cole, Miss… everyone. Quiet, all of you, at once," Lady Stark warned. "Sansa, dear, you do not need to explain yourself or entertain their foolish notions of anything."

"Of course not, Mother."

"You, Miss Dwyer, need to mind your posture as well. A lady neither slouches nor lounges."

Orla sat up in her chair, squirming and glowering.

"A lady keeps her back straight and her feet on the floor, Miss Dwyer. She does not cross her legs so. She does not act or look petulant when told what to do by those in authority to command her to do so."

"This lady doesn't like being told what to do," Orla retorted. "This lady hates needlework."

Eve agreed. "This lady hates _all_ of this domestic bullshit."

"In your modern stories and fanfictions, yes. In Westeros, such a lady will meet with much resistance to her ill-mannered ways."

"What about your daughter Arya? What about Lyanna? Hm?"

"My sister and aunt are the exceptions, not the rule," Sansa interjected, not even looking up from her own embroidery. She was certainly not interested in entertaining the idiocy of fanbrats unless it was to put them in their place. "You are not an exception. Quiet, now. That goes for _everyone_ ," she said to Lilanie and Sara, still squeeing about the unkiss.

_You're a twit and a Robb-stealer and an arse,_ Saskia wanted to add, but held her tongue.

They managed to work a while in relative silence— and by a while, that meant about two minutes at most. Saskia bit her lip as her needle traced the basic pattern, cursing under her breath each time she pricked herself. The last time she did, she yowled and glanced up. Jeyne, in the corner of her eye, had just finished feeding Ned and was bouncing him in her lap, babbling his baby gurgles back to him. Truth be told, it was _cute_ , way too fucking cute, but if it was so adorable, why were tears stinging her eyes, and why was she so jealous that she wanted to puke and cry and mope for days and throw rocks at poor innocent trees?

_Don't look,_ she told herself. _You're only going to make it worse. Orla's right. You can't have Robb. Maybe you_ can _, but it's wrong, isn't it? Isn't it? He's married. He's got a son. Who am I to come between him and his happiness? Maybe he just needs to know I exist, and he'll love me proper. Maybe he's not happy, and I'll be the truest source of his love and his joy. But he doesn't know me yet. Will he ever?_ Quibbling and sniffling a bit, she turned back to her work. She must've looked a picture of defeat, hunched over and trembling.

Orla noticed the baby, too. "Tell Jon to make one of those!" she squealed as the baby cooed and tugged at loose locks of Jeyne's hair. Orla's sampler, of course, lay in her lap, no more than a few stitches completed. "Except you've got to somehow ensure that his is more ginger and freckly and feisty and has Targaryen eyes but more like violet-blue and—"

"If you are not quiet immediately, Miss Dwyer, I will tell my brother to sic Ghost on you. All of you should have finished the most basic of stitches by now. Miss Crockett has made some progress, finally, as have Miss Keely and Miss Barnes. You, Miss Dwyer, have done nothing more than what Jeyne helped you with earlier."

"She's pestered everyone," Jeyne pointed out. "That she's certainly done."

"I just want your cousin-brother to be happy! Babies make everyone happy! And I'm assuming he died and came back, didn't he, so is he really bound to those stupid vows now? Let him be happy! Let yourself be happy with Sandor!" Orla was practically shrieking now.

"With Petyr!"

"And a Zamboni!"

"Ghost, Grey Wind, Lady, Shaggydog, Tormund, Bronn, the Mountain, Oberyn, Stannis, Brienne, and twenty dragons, now, including Her Grace's full-sized ones," Sansa listed. "Which will get you first?"

"My bet's on Shaggydog," Jeyne said. "Has Rickon been training him lately?"

"Rickon's been training him never. Osha's tried. It would be a pity if Rickon didn't feed him all day and set him loose in the Wailing Tower, wouldn't it, Jeyne?"

"Oh, no, that would be a delight."

Saskia had no doubts that Sansa and Jeyne were exaggerating just a little, or that they – or any of the staff, really – would be jumping at the chance to punish any of the pupils for the even the most minor but exasperating of infractions. The fear in Orla's eyes and the new quivering to her lips brought Saskia an immense rush of pleasure. A _sick,_ immense rush of pleasure she knew she shouldn't have felt over trivial and likely true remarks about her and Robb and their shared and admittedly shallow view of love, but still. It felt kind of wonderful to watch Orla squirm.

Lucy stuck her needle into her sampler and threw it to the floor, hmmf-ing like a bratty toddler after struggling to rethread her needle. "I hate needlework, too," she fumed. "It's borin' and oinin' me senseless, and what's the point of it if we're learnin' to write?"

"Oh?" Sansa said.

"We went over this at the beginning. Your Mary Sues would be expected to know this," Catelyn commented, "and would, if they were well-written characters of a noble house in the Seven Kingdoms, likely enjoy sewing, as Jeyne and my daughter and I do. You must learn to act like ladies if you are going to write about ladies. Next lesson we'll be teaching you some ladylike songs in addition to a new stitch."

"Does sewing not please and soothe you?" Jeyne asked. "I find it rather calming."

"It's not _real_ needlework. Not the kind of needlework I want to be doin', anyways."

Lady Stark looked long and hard at Lucy, almost as if anticipating a particular insipid answer. "And what kind of needlework would that be, Miss Hothersall?"

"The stabby-stabby assassin kind that Arya does."

"Me too," Sara said.

"Me three," said Saskia.

"Me four," chimed Eve.

So grumbled and bitched the vast majority of the brats.

"Girls, girls!" Catelyn called their attention. Sansa and Jeyne sighed deeply, almost as if resigned to give up and give in, and nodded to Catelyn. "If anyone wishes to try the form of needlework favoured by Arya, we do have such needles for you to use, if you do not mind having to do so outside. It _is_ a little rainy, mind."

"They've not got their PE kits, but I suppose that will be all right for just today, Mother?"

"Just today, if they're careful about not mussing their frocks," Catelyn conceded. "Well, my dears, all of you for _real_ needlework against the wall."

All but three of them rose at once, Saskia included. Orla elected to stay, and was slowly scooting her chair closer and closer to Sansa and Jeyne's (for what idiotic, not-quite-nefarious but very much annoying purposes Saskia could easily guess). Lilanie, the only testament to the existence of Namibia, was too absorbed in the adorableness of little Ned to care about swords, and sat making silly faces at him between stitches. A dark-haired American in the green and black garb of House Ryger also did not queue up.

"Staying in?" Saskia asked her.

The girl nodded. "I've always wanted to learn to sew. And Jeyne's right. It's calming. Bit stabby now while I suck at it," she said, wincing as she pricked her finger.

"Suit yourself," she said smugly, leaving the girl and cutting into the queue next to Lucy.

Jeyne surveyed the emptying room. "Everyone except Orla, Grace, and Lilanie, then? I'll stay here with Neddy and these three if you'll get the needles."

It was never good news, Saskia would soon learn, if Lady Stark called you a "dear" (unless you were Ned, one of her children, her good-daughter, Little Ned, or one of the direwolves), or if Lady Stark – or anyone, really – suddenly went sweet on you. They really did uphold that learning through pain and torture thing here. It was also never good news if any of the staff led you out into a garden surrounded by four-metre-high walls with mini dragons perched atop them, and told you they'd be right back with something.

"Sansa will be out in a moment with your needles, dears." She turned to Sansa, still in the classroom. "In the cupboard. Sansa? No, not that cupboard, Sansa. Here, let me help. A moment, dears."

And she shut the door in Saskia's face. Was… was that the clicky sound of the bolt _locking_? And someone _laughing_?

It was a good minute before anyone else realised what had transpired, and that they were stuck. The rain came in torrents and went, and came again in a persistent drizzle. Denaeryes, Ranly, Marjeryn, Lorass, and Thorax of Myr, despite not liking the rain one bit, would not leave their posts. They didn't like the noise, either – in the form of wailing and shrieks of _My lady! My lady! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!_ and _Let us in oh gods let us back in we've got more lectures today oh gods let us back in!_ – and looked downright murderous if anyone made any loud noises too close to them.

An hour passed, and then another. Kayleigh Evans, scratching at the walls with her remaining glittery acrylic talons, was weeping herself sick, likely over missing Jon's lecture, if Saskia knew Kayleigh and her stupidity any. The lone girl who actually admired Davos, much less remembered who he was and had his and Brienne's lesson next, was sobbing in a corner, and sobbed harder when Lorass, a very flamboyant-looking green and purple dragon, swooped down just to shit and vomit in her dreads. Others whinged and wept, huddled together like penguins to shelter themselves from the cold and from the rain, whilst others still attempted to scale the walls or bang unceasingly on the door back to civilisation, clearly desperate enough to keep pounding despite suspecting that everyone inside had long since left.

Saskia's heart was pounding, too. How long now until her next lesson began? What was it, even? _Contemporary Issues in Westerosi Society_? She was going to miss it if she didn't hurry; that much was certain. She'd never missed a lecture, ever, for a non-legitimate reason. There _was_ that time she'd decided that the Thai buffet at The Kings Arms was more important than constructions of otherness in the novels of Ann Radcliffe, because it was (and it was only like seven quid, okay?), and the time she'd had a well-deserved, hung-over lie-in the day after Declan's massive birthday out. Other than that, Saskia was diligent when it came to attendance— not that she always or, really, frequently paid much attention the ninety-nine percent of the time she actually attended.

_This doesn't count, though. It's not a_ real _lecture, is it? I'm learning how to write fucking Game of Thrones fanfiction. It's not a real uni. Jon Snow doesn't exist._

He definitely existed enough for Kayleigh and Lucy to sound so mental. Lucy, desperate, was clawing at the far wall, making hellish noises as she struggled to hoist herself up any higher than twenty centimetres or so. Lucy had mentioned, when signing up for Slaying, that she was the worst combination of lazy and unathletic, to the point of almost failing PE in Year 9, and now Saskia could see why. Others, too, were just as distressed, and could also not climb much higher.

There was nothing for it. Saskia _had_ to. She had to at least try. She'd been rock climbing once with her cousins in Nottingham, and wasn't dratted awful at it; Jack and Georgina had laughed at her terror at first, but she was quick to learn. That'd been over the summer, though, but there was a chance she could climb four metres now and not die, albeit a slim one because, really, how wet was all that stone? And could she figure out where she'd be on the other side of the wall and be able to get to the Tower of Dread from there, or be able to come back around to free everyone else? She couldn't miss a lecture, not on the first day of term, not when her professors were kind of cruel and murdery, and apparently had direwolves (she'd not seen those yet, but she had no doubts that they existed and that they were bloodthirsty) that could rip out your throat on command.

But there were dragons here. Leering dragons. Leering, bitey, screamy, shitting, vomiting, fangirl-burning mini dragons perched all around the perimeter of the enclosure, watching, mayhaps waiting to strike and burn and devour anyone who came close enough to freedom. There were probably also dragons in _Contemporary Issues in Westerosi Society_ , too, that – who knew? – might torch you for being a minute late.

She had to. She _had_ to, unless she wanted to die. Or fail. Whichever was worst.

Marjeryn's beady eyes met hers.

Here went nothing.

* * *

_We will certainly be needing a "Shipping Sansa Sanely" chapter…_


	7. Renly and Loras and Jorah, Oh My

As Saskia climbed higher and higher, fuelled only by sheer desperation and trepidation of additional mini dragons beginning to flock beneath her, her fear only grew. She'd presumed it'd have been otherwise, for wasn't stupidity, of all things, the source of bravery? It had been so every other time in her life. Saskia remembered sitting what had seemed a lifetime of examinations, having only revised in a manner that could be described as 'not revising and looking at past papers as much as everyone else seemed to be', because what would be would be, and if she were going to spend the remainder of her life under the pressure of looming failure, also known as Bs, she'd best ignore work whilst she was at liberty to ignore it— though, really, exams were a big deal and she truly wasn't at liberty to ignore them. She remembered being so idiotically brave, so stupidly confident, at least after the fear from what she'd not done had subsided a bit, because every major decision she'd ever made, every last thing she'd ever done, was done on foolish whims born of laziness and ennuistic nonchalance. If she failed and got a B, she got a B, and that's what gap years and spending the rest of her life as a hobo in Romania were for, and that didn't sound too bad an option at all.

Now, though, if Saskia failed, she died. Probably. She could easily smash her head open on… oh, fuck, were there rocks below? A quick glance to the ground said _yes, small sharp ones_ , the kinds that would stab nicely into eye sockets if you fell on them face-first and leave you as mangled as Oberyn Martell. Even then, the ground would be hard, she was almost all the way to the top of the wall now, and the dragons wouldn't delay a second in consuming her splatty brains. The thought of splatty brains made her hand slip on the protruding bit of she'd been gripping, but she managed to hang on, the strength of her hold burning stone into her palms and fingers.

Marjeryn, looming on a thin branch overhanging the wall above her and snapping its wee jaws at her as it stretched its olive green wings, looked right hungry, and let out a hiss that sent a jolt of fear right through her heart.

_Robb,_ she thought with a gulp. _Think of Robb. Robb is on the other side. He's having a picnic and a wank all by his lonesome in the godswood, and the wind's blowing his hair the way you like so much. He's waiting for you, Saskia. He's going to propose to you tonight after fucking you under the stars. You can't die today or ever, Saskia Crockett, if you've not snogged Robb Stark, if you've not made love to him, if you've not truly loved him and had him love you as he was meant to…_

"Oh… oh my god!" she could hear Amy Moore crying. "She's, like, Spiderman! Saskia, free us!"

"Free us!"

"Free us!"

She nodded as best she could without taking her eyes off the slippery route up, and pressed on. As soon as she was up, not seconds later, she swung her leg over the opposite side of the wall, dangling over the godswood, and glanced down.

The woods were dark and deep. And terrifying. That, too. And, in all that dead, rain-damp foliage probably lived an infinity of spiders. She'd never notice if a harvestman crawled on her in there, and the mere thought of those unspeakable crawlies being anywhere near her made her shudder. Saskia didn't know how big the godswood truly was, but it was certainly Harrenhalesque in terms of proportion—meaning, immense, and who knew if anyone would find her or her maggot- and spider-infested corpse if she got lost in there? Could she even jump down there?

The dragons made that decision for her fast enough; Thorax of Myr and Danearyes were creeping towards her along the wall, their beady eyes fixed directly into hers, their nostrils flaring as if they could scent her fear and craved it. Down it was, then, and down it was _now_. Better harvestmen, if they even existed in Westeros, than dragons. The stones on the other side of the wall were a lot smoother, and that side seemed to lack footholds. She could lower herself down without breaking her legs, but maybe if she were to jump for the tree not too far away, before Thorax could get to her, then—

"Miss Crockett! Whatever are you doing?"

Saskia was lucky she'd a good grip on the wall, and straddled and gripped it with her thighs as she would an horse, else she was sure she would've fallen for shock. The dragons, equally started, flew off at once and roosted in a nearby tree, still leering at Saskia as they lay in wait. Lady Stark, accompanied by Jeyne and Sansa, stood at the entrance to the courtyard, looking absolutely and unequivocally miffed.

_I'm fucking_ _climbing_ _,_ Saskia wanted to retort, but no sassiness came out. It were all the better for it, anyway, as Lady Stark would someday be her mother-in-law, she hoped, and she'd best not strain their relationship any further.

"No climbing! I'll not have you crippling yourself or dying, not on my watch, you won't."

_Well, you weren't watching proper, or at all, were you?!_

"Lecture!" Saskia shrieked instead. "I've Jon's lecture!"

"Lectures!" her classmates echoed. They were beginning to form a colossal blob of a crowd around Lady Stark, all ambling and pushing each other to get through the Sansa and Jeyne-blocked door.

"Of course we're not allowed to let you miss your lectures!" Jeyne yelled over the whimpering horde. "That would defeat the purpose of you coming here to learn. We hope today you've learnt an important lesson about insisting on acting upon your unladylike whims."

Catelyn tutted. "And proper ladies do not stampede anyone for anything. We shall let you through one at a time, dears."

"That'll take months for them to learn. Poor Robb. Get _back_ , Miss Barnes, and wait your turn," Jeyne warned Keeley, who was, in desperation, struggling to climb over Eve and Ilze to get inside, knocking into Sansa's legs as she stumbled over her own dress. " _Fanbrats_ ," she muttered with disdain.

"Months, or however long it takes for one of them to anger the dragons in with their lust, anger, haste, or stupidity," Sansa said as the girls began rushing past in a staggered queue. "One or two always make an example of them all."

"A week, then, at most. A pity it wasn't today," Jeyne sighed to Sansa. "Robb's already got a nasty headache from these things, and his first lecture's not even until tomorrow."

"Has Eleanor sent for more aspirin from England? It'll be very much needed this term, I fear."

Saskia was still at the top of the wall, her lip quivering, her eyes watering, her thighs beginning to hurt from the stone digging into them and the tension in her muscles. She wasn't a _thing_. She was Saskia Louise Crockett, Comparative Literature student, _Game of Thrones_ addict, Guinness-fuelled pervy fancier, Walpole Park-loitering wannabe hobo, too afraid of failure to reasonably think anything through, too fond of bad nightclubs and curry chips, and a right coward. She was Lyalyah Ranford, too (or wanted to be)— brave, spunky, feisty, strong, skilled with a blade, and loved and in love with the hottest man in Westeros who accepted her exactly as she was, despite her being infinitely exasperating. She was also kind of an idiot, she suspected, if she was bad enough to be whisked off somewhere she'd assumed was fictional for the express purpose of being rehabilitated, but in no way was she a thing.

"There is no need to be upset, dear. Do get down. Jon is looking particularly rugged today, and it would be a terrible shame if you were to miss a moment of lusting over him."

"I love _Robb_!" she howled, gripping the wall tighter.

"And _I_ love Jon!" Lucy shrieked.

"Well, usually one or the other," Catelyn said dismissively. "It's not as if it matters. Inside now, dears, before you miss your lectures and are punished."

"I _want_ Davos to punish me," said his lone fangirl, and the lone fangirl other than Saskia and Lucy who had not hauled serious ass out of the garden, in vain attempting to prettify herself a bit by shaking chunks of Lorass' meaty sick out of her blond dreads, "very, very severely."

Jeyne snorted. "Then ask him to cut off your fingers, Miss Deane, so you can write no more Stannis/Davos slash ever again. The Onion Knight will oblige, I'm sure, more readily than he would ever oblige Stannis sexually."

"What about Saskia?!" Lucy cried.

Saskia was still clutching the wall with her thighs and with her hands, too terrified to attempt descent.

"Perhaps soon you will understand that this university and life in general do not revolve around Saskia Crockett and her issues, Miss Hothersall, much less around yours. Miss Crockett, you found your way up there. You certainly did not fly. You can certainly climb down on your own, unless Miss Hothersall and Miss Deane feel inclined to assist you."

Saskia looked to Lucy. Although Saskia liked the funny-accented, Mary-looking girl, she didn't trust her and her lack of athleticism and coordination to help her any. It'd have to be the godswood way.

"No, Miss Crockett. You will come down the way you came. Best not risk running into the grumkins and snarks on your way through the wood."

Lucy's eyes boggled. "What… what're grumkins and snarks? No, Saskia, no, down _here_ , this way!"

Sansa just smirked and Catelyn just tutted, leaving Saskia, Lucy, and the Davos girl behind.

* * *

By the time Saskia managed to clamber down, shaking the whole way and, not a metre from the ground, slipping and landing flat on her face on a convenient grassy area, it was time for her next lecture. She looked a right mess with her dress all soaked and grass-stained, and her black hair plastered to her neck, and was all the more unsightly for wheezing and gasping the whole sprint to the Tower of Dread.

Jon Snow was looking rather attractive, though. He was, really, very, very pretty for a man, Saskia had to admit. He wasn't as pretty as Robb, to be sure, and his dark hair and broody demeanour did nothing for her, but he _was_ nice to gawk at, or he would be if she weren't so distracted and overstimulated and coming off a fear-high from her climbing adventure. _Robb_ , she thought to ease the tension. _Robb's abs. Robb's arse. Robb naked._

"My Jon's so sexy!" Lucy chunnered, interrupting Saskia's pervy thoughts, choking through her lack of breath from having had to flailingly run thirty metres at a laughable pace. "And look at his arse Sass look at his arse it's so squeezable and mmmff oh my sweet Jesus I need my hands on it like you get Robb and I'll get Jon and we'll have ourselves an arse party. Their wives and like everyone else totally not invited. Oh my God Sass look at his stubble! Imagine where else he's got hair?! Do he shave down there you think cos we've not ever seen It. You think he'd let me kiss him? Like I want to touch his face and everywhere else like nah it's a need not a want and—"

Saskia didn't even need to shush Lucy or punch her in the arm to quiet her. A growl from Ricken and Aria did that well enough.

Jon Snow might not have looked particularly terrifying, but the menagerie of baby dragons overhead and the enormous albino direwolf lounging adorably on top of the desk certainly did, as did… who was that guy petting the direwolf? The beard guy. The big ginger guy who… wasn't Mance, was he? No, Mance was Forest Fire Caesar. This was… Tormund? The Growly Sex Advice Viking. She knew that some of the teachers who were more lusted-over weren't allowed to be left alone for stampeding reasons, and required a second teacher or some type of security presence, but as for why this guy was here, she had no idea.

The gruff beardo waved. "Welcome, you lot. Me name's Tormund. Adjunct lecturer 'ere at OFUW, for a while."

"Tall-talker, Horn-blower and Breaker of Ice, Husband to Bears, Mead-king of Ruddy Hall, Speaker to Gods, and Father of Hosts," Jon added. "Fucker of Bears, too, he'll have you know. And constant intruder in my personal life."

"Who's Tormund?" a bunch of fangirls wondered aloud. Despite that sexy, ginger, highly recognisable show!Tormund stood before them, anyone who wasn't Jon, Tyrion, Robb, Daenerys, Jaime, or Ser Friendzone did not have a name to them, and might not have existed at all, as far as they were concerned.

"Him," Jay said plainly.

"Oh," said Keisha, who, upon her own admittance, had confessed to not paying attention to scenes in the show that didn't involve the Lannisters. "I don't remember him."

Saskia thought a moment on how to explain it. "He's, like, the big lumberjack who eats chicken with Julius Caesar and hates Thenns? The bald Russian cannibals? And his friends are Gareth from The Office who's also the roll-away eye guy on Pirates of the Caribbean, and the maid from Downton Abbey, and they have a jolly time killing whores and peasants? Beard guy who kills zombies with Jon Snow? He's in hotel adverts?"

"You watch way too much TV," Lucy panted. "A girl after my own heart."

"Ohhhh," came the collective realisation. "That guy. The beard guy. I thought that was Mance."

Hannah raised her hand. "Are you a transvestite?"

Tormund ignored her. "You lot'll re _member_ me th' next time I'm 'ere. Remember, remember me forty-foot member. You'd _better_."

Jon smirked. "It was eighty-foot last year."

"Still a thousand times th' size o' yours."

"As you know, or so I should hope by this point, that's Tormund, and he talks about his privates too often. Don't ask him about the bear. He's not Mance Rayder, not Ygritte's dad, not my gay lover, not Benjen, or any combination thereof. And I'm Jon Snow. For the record, before you inevitably comment on me being a lecturer here when I purportedly know nothing, I do indeed know a lot of things."

"That thing with your tongue!" Sara cried, slavering.

"What windmills are!"

"Where to put it!"

"IN ME!" Kayleigh shrieked, echoed by at least a third of the lust-filled, snivelling pupils.

"IN THEON'S ARSE!" Letty cried. "AND ROBB'S!"

"No," Jon replied firmly, "and if anyone has anything else to add about how much I don't know anything, which is not a comment on how daft I am, but how uninformed I was to certain aspects of life, as well as perhaps Ygritte's way of flirting with me and telling me she loves me, then I will show him or her exactly how much I know about killing."

"Is that a lot?"

Jon nodded, and so did Grace, who, unlike practically everyone else, remained unshaken from having avoided being locked outside in the rain with too many dragons.

"Hardhome, Craster's Keep," she listed, "at least in the show. The Wall. Don't want to fuck with that."

"I want to _fuck_ that," Kayleigh whined, shimmying and leaning forward in her seat so that her crotch grazed the edge of the chair. "I'm _going_ to fuck that."

"You won't," Jon said coolly, looking the randy Texan teen right in the eye. "Ever."

Kayleigh, however, did not desist with her very unsexy squirming until Tormund's fist smashed down on her desk, and his mammoth, scruffy mess of a face was millimetres from her own.

"Try _anythin'_ wi' Jon," he growled, "an' I'll slap your cunt arse 'alf th' way t'Asshai wi' me member, an' tha's a fookin' you'll not like. You're 'ere t' _learn_ , girl. You wan' t' fook, I'll give you a rusty blade t' do it wi'. No? Then shut your gob an' keep still."

_Am I that bad about Robb?_ Saskia wondered. _I'm not that pathetic._ She had standards of behaviour, you know. Low standards, but standards nonetheless. Then again, she'd never rubbed her crotch on a chair before Robb, or crassly and publicly told him that she wanted to fuck him—but she would if driven further into drunken desperation, which, admittedly, she could feel wasn't all that far off if she could find strong enough alcohol or the willpower to drink thirty pints of watered-down ale.

"As Tormund said, you're here to learn," Jon continued. He pointed to an anachronistic blackboard. "To start, your Do Now. Don't tell Lord Tywin. He does not approve of progressive educational practices. For those of you desperate to share something with me, let Do Nows be our titillating little secret ritual. Parchment and quills are in your desks."

_Do you believe R + L = J? Why or why not?_

Saskia had a feeling that Tywin would definitely not like the Do Now. She also had a feeling that Tywin would not approve of a discussion that was not a one-way, canon-only ranting. But Tywin was off being a controlling mudkip overlord type elsewhere, Saskia presumed, if the incidents of that morning were enough to go by.

She'd heard of R + L = J before. It'd been mentioned in a forum on a Stark-centred "what if" thread, and knew that it had something to do with Jon's mother, who was probably Lyanna, she thought, though she knew nothing of Lyanna other than that she was Ned's sister and she was dead. His father was maybe Robert Baratheon, maybe Rhaegar, whose surname she wasn't even going to attempt to spell. Was Rhaegar the same as the Mad King? She wasn't sure. She wrote nothing.

Two minutes in, Amy Moore raised her hand.

"I don't understand, Lord Snow. To be honest, I never have, but I've never looked at forums or anything for fear of spoilers, and my cousin says…" Amy trailed off. "Well, how can Renly and Loras be Jorah's parents, and why is that relevant to current issues in Westeros?"

"Are ya fookin' _serious_ , girl?" Tormund fumed whilst Jon, shockingly, _laughed_. A slight nod from Amy, coupled with her unblinking, mousy stare and her cowered stance in her chair, said yes, she absolutely was serious, and was indeed absolutely stupid. "Amy fookin' _Moron_."

"R means Robert Baratheon there," Lilanie sighed, "and Lyanna. You know, Ned's dead sister?"

" _Rhaegar_ and Lyanna," a quiet voice corrected. It came from a Chinese-looking, Aussie- or Kiwi-sounding lad in the back row. He was so quiet and strangely unobtrusive (for the setting of rabid fans, anyway) that Saskia hadn't even noticed him before—not that she had had the opportunity, as he was in the red garb of House Blackwood, and their two houses hardly were ever grouped together.

"Right, Andy. We presume R + L = J due to the enormous amount of hints throughout the books, which Tyrion has told me you're starting to read for homework tonight, as well as in the show—namely, fathering bastards not being 'Ned Stark's way,' the 'Targaryen alone in the world' line coinciding with my random entrance, Melisandre's interest in me and king's blood, and Sansa and Littlefinger's conversation in the crypts. If R + L = J isn't canon, it's poor writing, so we're going with the idea that it is canon. Odds are very, very good that it is. If this makes no sense to you now, Tyrion's lectures next week on Robert's Rebellion and other pre-canon events should clear this up rather quickly. As for why it's relevant, you'll learn this week. And men cannot bear children, Amy Moore."

Eve was indignant. "But why can't they? This is fanfiction!"

"This isn't _Harry Potter_ , Eve. Or _The Hobbit_. Or _Lord of the Rings_ ," Jon said. "There is absolutely no mpreg allowed. The fandom may be sick and strange, and going that way fast with Gendrya with a side of autistic headcanons and the Ramsay/Reek torture porn you love so much, but it's not reached 'weird pervy mpreg everywhere' level quite yet."

"An' it best not, you lot," Tormund warned. "Don' make me 'ang anyone wi' their own guts."

"Ooh, I _love_ that fic where Hodor gets knocked up the arse by Treebeard," the Jaime/Moon Boy girl squealed, ignoring Tormund's threat and clapping her hands together with excitement. She had a very strong Cockney accent and, apparently, no filter when it came to the batshittery and destruction of all that was good and holy in a canon that she loved so much to ruin. "Their son is Groot."

Sophie Jones made the O_o face. "Are those, like, the giant talking tree things?"

"Yeah. And Groot only says _I am Groot_. 'E gets it from his mum-dad. In the sequel, Groot ends up 'getting it' from Treebeard in more than one way, in more than one 'ole, and—"

Three-fandom crossover. Male pregnancy. Ents having homosexual sex with humans. Ents having homosexual, incestuous sex with their own sons. It was a recipe for vomiting, to be certain, and whatever the Moon Boy girl was smoking, Saskia never wanted to so much as smell it second-hand, and it didn't look like anyone else did, either— other than that girl, though, who was clearly odd enough to write something like that and get sent here for it, if crackfic could get you sent to OFUW.

"Esther, that's disturbing. Amy, R is for Rhaegar, R-H-A-E-G-A-R, as Andy has been so kind as to clarify for you. L is for Lyanna, L-Y-A-N-N-A. J is for Jon. Me, not Jon Connington or Jon Arryn, if any of you even remember who either of them are. Certainly not Jorah, who is older than Renly and Loras, and thus could not possibly be their son."

"Aye," Tormund grunted. "Now can we be gettin' t' issues o' succession in your bloody kingdom an' why R + L = J matters?"

"But I've a question, Lord Snow. How did Rhaegar—"

It was going to be a very, very long term.

* * *

It was maybe midnight – too early to wake for a three o'clock lecture, but Saskia couldn't sleep. She'd awoken from a distressing dream in which Robb was dead in a patch of harebells, naked, and she couldn't get to him, couldn't revive him, and his mother hissed at her and wouldn't let her near him. Sansa, Arya, Jeyne were allowed by his remains, and they bathed him, covered him in a blanket of poppies that Sansa was weaving. _Not yours,_ Arya mouthed. _Never yours,_ Jeyne echoed. _Give him to the woods, to the gods._

Saskia tossed and turned in bed for a while after, silently thanking all the gods that anyone had ever worshiped that Lucy and Orla were heavy sleepers and thus hadn't woken to notice her pitiful tears and fuss over and mock at her, respectively. If she were up this early, then she'd get ready. To meet Robb. At last. Finally. In person.

She bathed, braided her hair in the dull mirror in the bathroom, trimmed her nails, donned the scratchy, standard-issue blue frock that was so bright it washed her out. She had to look beautiful for Robb, or at least as beautiful as possible. _Is he going to notice me? Is he going to care? He's no reason to, really. No, but he does. You love him. You're clever, or that's what everyone's always said. You've nice eyes. You're easy-going. You write brilliant papers. Maybe he'll learn to love you and not Jeyne, lucky Jeyne, who has him for no reason. What has she ever done to deserve him?_ Her heart sank. _And what have_ _you_ _? Nothing. Love isn't supposed to be something deserved, is it? Fuck. No one loves an overemotional shit. Probably not Robb, either. Fuck._

She was getting weepy and angsty, much too weepy and angsty, and she was going to distract herself with some fanfiction—which, here, you had to write by hand, with no spellcheck, with a quill and ink, and with _books_ as a reference (you were definitely encouraged to do that here). She snuck off to the small study opposite the bathroom, and got to writing.

_Lyalyah's oceanic eyes were brimming with tears. Soon her riding party would arrive in Winterfell for her wedding, and with it would arrive her ultimate despair. She wasn't a thing to be bought and sold. No women were. No women should've been forced to marry, and Lyalyah didn't want to marry anyone. Not Robb Stark, either. She was a woman and a warrior, not a maiden meant for breeding or for a man's comfort. And she was better with a blade than her future lord husband ever would be. Why weren't men ever married off?!_

" _Are you OK?"_ _asked her handmaiden Illeriah, shaking her from her thoughts._

Saskia paused to stretch her hand. It was a bitch writing with ink and a quill by candlelight, and though her hand ached, she was feeling a bit better. And what came next, anyway? Of course Lyalyah would be upset about her marriage, so she had to cry. Not too ugly-ly, though, because despite that Lyalyah didn't care too much about her looks, she was a princess and had to look dignified, much unlike how Saskia looked now. Robb would instantly want to comfort Lyalyah if she arrived in Winterfell all teary and tired, and, naturally, she'd push him away because Lyalyah was a strong woman and would never give in to a man like that.

_Lyalyah shook her head. Glistening onyx tendrils shook from her crown of hair, and a tear trickled out of her eye._

" _I know the King in the North isn't…"_

" _I don't want to talk about that!" Lyalyah snapped. "He's not my King! And he won't be my husband!"_

_But he would be, though. Mayhaps she would come to love him. Or come to hate him more than she did already…_

"Hodor! Hodor! Hooooooooooooodddddddooooooooooooooooooorrrr!"

Saskia jumped up. Her hip banged ouchily into the desk, knocking the inkwell over and spilling ink all over her disturbingly bad masterpiece of wangst.

"Stop that!" Saskia shrieked in defence. "You ruined my fic!"

Hodor shrugged. "Hooodor. Hodor hodor hodor."

"You _ruined_ my _fic_!"

Ramsay popped his head into the room, delight glistening in his creepily pale eyes.

"Look, Hodor, this brat's already wakey-wakey. Did you bother it, Hodor? Let's wake it again." He turned to Saskia, grinning. "Good morning, sweetling," he crooned, before bending down to quickly position his dratted instrument in her face and blowing hard. Ramsay cackled to himself and slinked out of the room, a hodoring Hodor in tow.

"HOOOOOODOR! HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOODORRRRR!"

Wiping a spray of vuvuzela spit off her cheek, Saskia shook herself off. She might've been ugly, desperate, terrified, ink-stained, and sleep-deprived, or just feeling so, but she was as ready as she'd ever be.

Robb was waiting.


	8. The Euphoria

 

"STANNIS! STANNIS! STANNIS!"

The night was alive with the overexuberant moans of Stannis fanboys, echoing off the stone walls of the Tower of Ghosts, burrowing into Saskia's muddled brain.

By the time Saskia had made herself only slightly more presentable and barely tidied the mess of inky papers and books she'd left in the Wailing Tower study, she was well on her way to being late to darling Robbie's lecture. Darling Robbie wasn't there yet—and, to the detriment of her aching head, neither was Stannis. There were more fanboys than she'd originally guesstimated on her first night in Westeros; there were certainly more than twenty-five of them at the most. More like fifty, she estimated, if there were twenty of them now here— twenty madded, mostly Stannis-obsessed fanboys she was extremely glad tended to not be in her regular modules (not in such droves, at least) and were housed elsewhere, because the noise they made was bordering on worse than the shrieks Orla and her friends let out whenever Sandor was within two metres of Sansa.

"STANNIS! STANNIS! STANNIS!" the near-collective moan continued. "WHERE IS STANNIS?"

In that moment, the Mannimals were euphoric in anticipation of their master, their idol, their god. Underwood, Gavin, a pasty, mouth-breathing Scot, shot Saskia a nasty look; she had dared to enter the classroom and not be Stannis the Mannis. Both Mr Underwood and Novak, Ethan were moments away from foaming at the mouth. Ramirez, Alejandro, who wished he were Stannis' son and wrote three terrible fics about being Alexx Baratheon, a broadsword-wielding boy commander, probably would've swooned had he been a sissy lady or suffering from low blood pressure as he eagle-eyedly watched the door for the entrance of the Mannis, because everything the Mannis ever did was praiseworthy and godlike, no questions asked, no alternative beliefs considered. Lawson, Justin (or, as he preferred, Orion Fireblade), whose patchy black neckbeard was offensive in its ugliness and stereotypicalness, was muttering something incomprehensible (well, the only things Saskia could comprehend were _Stannis_ , _king,_ and _Blackwater_ ) to himself as he rocked in his chair, bulge-eyed and kind of crazed in the coming presence of God like some sort of tubby anchorite gone mad. The Cryptkeeper, aka Hockins, Archibald, was sneaking a hand into his pocket, as – _seven hells, ew_ – he rubbed his engorged meat snake, his lanky frame ashudder with creepy, creepy pleasure.

"Stannissssssss. Stannisssssss," he whispered, twitchily slumping over the desk as he ceased to battle his purple-headed yoghurt slinger.

And one of the only remaining seats was next to that… _thing_ , whom everyone else was ignoring, whether out of desensitisation or Mannis mania. It was either sitting next to Orla or the Cryptkeeper, and, as annoying as Orla was wont to be, she wouldn't be spunking all over herself. Saskia threw herself into the empty chair next to a yawning Orla before Flannery could heave herself into it, earning yet another annoyed glare.

"STANNIS! STANNIS! STANNIS!"

And there the stunning and esteemed and perfect Mannis was, looking right stone-faced and even more unamused than Tywin was wont to be as he surveyed the massive horde of morons he would have to call his pupils. It _was_ three in the morning, and it was doubtful that any instructor would be happy about lecturing at that hour, but Saskia suspected that Stannis was habitually much grumpier than Gragor and Allisar, the dragons guarding him, at any and every hour of the day.

"M'LORD! M' GOD! M' MANNIS!"

"You will cease this noise," the Mannis ordered in a way almost Tywinesque in its calmness and demanding simplicity. He ground his teeth. "At once."

As Stannis strode into the classroom, Robb followed. Robb. Robb. _Robb._ If she were writing a narrative of this, she'd say that her loins were atremble and her heart was on fire with blazing lust. Robb, ginger and glorious and gorgeous. Robb, with eyes as deep and azure and still as the seas. Robb, in brown britches that were just the perfect amount of tight and a green tunic that would've made those eyes even more stunning had it not been so dark in that dreary, draughty classroom. Robb, with something very nice dangling between his legs, most like. Robb, perfect in every way.

Stannis was not perfect. Stannis was not Robb, after all. The Iron Throne was Robb's—or, failing that, Khaleesi's. Daenerys'. Stannis had no right to it, as far as she was concerned, and couldn't see what the fuss over him was about. And she could never forgive the esteemed Mannis' most fatal blunder. She'd cried over the deaths of Ned and Catelyn and Lady and the old guy at Castle Black— and, of course, she'd wept enough to flood London over Robb and Grey Wind. But the death that destroyed her the most was Shireen's, and she'd never forgive Stannis for being a cold-hearted, insufferable, daughter-burning twat, even if she knew Shireen was alive in this strange canon in which she was living.

Robb cleared his throat. "Good morning, children. I'm aware that it's early. I'm also aware that many of you are in love with me," – Saskia whimpered just a bit too loudly at this – "and that the other half of you are in mad love with Stannis and Jon and Jaime and Sansa—"

"And Daenerys!" Jay whinged.

"Daenerys!"

Gavin whimpered. "Brienne! M' fair lady!"

"Cersei!"

"MORE MANNIS!" the Cryptkeeper howled.

"Arya!" shouted a group of neckbeards in the corner.

…which was extremely sickening, because Arya was… what, twelve or so? Certainly not old enough to be involved in relationships that were anything more than silly fancying, that was sure.

"Silence," said the Mannis, grinding his teeth.

"Right, right. Does it matter? And Arya, so you know, is fifteen in this aged-up canon, and is currently in Braavos, where she teaches at our Essosi sister school, and is therefore off limits. You are to treat my sisters with respect, regardless of whether or not they're here. That said, let us keep our sessions civil, sane, and productive. Which means no masturbating, you in the back, unless you'd like your cock fed to dragons. Wouldn't be much meat for them."

"M'lord," the Cryptkeeper rasped, jerking his left hand out of his trousers pocket as Gragor descended upon his desk, a bright red tinge creeping across his normally death-pale, pockmarked face. "Mannis."

How the fuck could the Cryptkeeper have been at it again? At least the Mannis had the power to stop the insanity, though.

"As in war," the Mannis said to a whimpering class hanging on his every perfect word, "skill and discipline ensure victory in the classroom, which is why, today, we will start with our exercises at once. Basic weaponry, as you'll also learn tomorrow in your Slaying lessons, will be of paramount importance here. For now, we will be marching without our weapons."

And so the Mannis and the King in the North led the pack of tittering Mannimals outside, despite that it was dark and cold and wet, because _real_ commanders had no choice and Stannis had no had given them sticks for the formation of some… marchy military formation thing. The Mannis had positioned them all in something called a phalanx, which was… some kind of legion of people with sticks and spears and shields? Stannis had explained it, and had mentioned they'd be learning more in the lecture portion of the lesson, but she hadn't been listening. It was some massive group of soldiers, she reckoned stupidly, for close and stabby combat. Soon enough, though, Justin broke formation, panting from the exhaustion inherent in marching the length of a building, to wave around his stick and screech, "Go go Fireblade!", which did not earn him the love of the Mannis.

Shivering and cursing her aching legs and hoping that Robb would show some mercy, some love, and the Mannimals some decency, Saskia's mind began to wander.

_Robb was away too often from her_ , she wrote in her head, knowing full well she'd do so there and neglect to take it down later. _Whenever they were apart, they looked up to see the same stars that had reigned at their births, their marriage, and all the nights of their love—the same stars that would reign at the birth of their son, now stirring beneath her heart. Lyalyah missed her lord husband with every last remnant of the soul that died at his departure, but when she looked to the stars above, she knew he'd be watching, too, and was at last comforted._

" _I love you, Robb," Lyalyah whispered. The North Star twinkled as if to communicate Robb's love right to her. The moon was a curved sliver, as curled and pale as the body that adorned the empty bed of night without him._

"Miss Crockett."

She startled. Robb Stark was looking right at her.

And Robb was _talking to her_! Granted, the only thing he'd ever said directly to her was "Miss Crockett," but he was talking to her and that counted, even if he were only super formal when saying her name, even if he seemed bemused by her and all the other girls. Robb was talking to her! His voice was so gravelly and sexy from lack of sleep. He was looking at her, right in her eyes! Her breath stopped as she stared at his angelic, scruffy face, so soft in the waning moonlight, and practically every organ inside of her was in sickening tumult as she awaited his next word. Was he going to say anything? He was looking at her so… oddly… and… and… oh, gods, he was even more fit up close!

It slowly dawned on her. Maybe Robb was going to declare his admiration of her! That's how it would be in a fanfiction, how it was with Lyalyah! In her story – well, she'd not written that bit yet – Robb caught Lya off guard and confessed how much he admired her skill with a bow and a blade… how strong and beautiful and unconquerable she was…

"Do not shuffle your feet. Eyes ahead and march. Get back in formation," he finished.

Her ovaries exploded.

* * *

After the lecture ended and Saskia sat alone in an empty classroom that smelt of sweat and ale and unwashed neckbeard greasiness (and not, sadly, like Robb's wonderful musk), her eyes exploded with tears.

_He's real. He's real and I can't have him. He barely knows I exist when I thought he was going to tell me he admires me or loves me. He was beautiful when he said my name, though._ Robb Stark was a character in a book, of course, that she could play with, force to marry her own characters, and return slightly used and degraded to the rest of the overeager fandom, but here, it was Westeros. Robb Stark was real, and Robb Stark wasn't hers to use. And, hell, Robb Stark wasn't hers to love, and the thought stomped her heart to a bloody mess; thus her heart did break, yet brokenly live on.

The rest of the day went by in a haze of self-induced, fannish misery and despair that was only exacerbated by the absolutely shite weather. As the rain came down in torrents even heavier than the ones that had fallen yesterday, the dirt floors ubiquitous in Harrenhal muddied up, and water poured through cracks in the stone and through the gaping crevasses in many of the roofs. It was cold, most of all so in the library, where Saskia was holing up to read the first few chapters of _A Game of Thrones_ for Canon for Feeble-Minded Fanbrats. It was miserable. She wouldn't feel so miserable, she reckoned, if she knew that Robb, at least, was happy, if she could see him totally and irrevocably content with Jeyne and their son.

_What would I even do with him if I had him? He'd not love me. It wouldn't hurt so bad if Robb weren't the only reason I chose to come here. Fuck. I came here for Robb, and if I can't have Robb, what's the point of it all? I just want to be happy, too. Loved._ Maybe she'd learn to be a better writer here, but what deep-seated wish-fulfilment was that?

Her _Honour and Dignity for Twats_ lecture with Davos and Brienne was also a blur, so much that she wouldn't be able to tell anyone what transpired there— well, other than that Gavin Underwood, one of the Mannimals from that morning, had literally and desperately thrown himself at Brienne during her introduction to proper comportment for Westerosi knights, and had, in repayment, had a couple chunks bitten off his bum by Bruce Bolton and Joffery. That much and Gavin's high-pitched screams as the Hound carted him off to Qyburn were memorable, at least.

Luckily for her, Brienne had let them all out early, leaving Saskia with an hour to herself. She was going to have a nice long bath. She was going to relax for once, and lose herself in _A Game of Thrones_ and find evidence of that R + L = J theory that was so important. She was going to stop sulking, goddamnit.

But as soon as she entered the Wailing Tower bathroom, all hopes of relaxation went right out the window. A shadow of girl was cursing in Afrikaans as she knelt on the stone floor and picked a spider out of her afro, surrounded by ropes and her own personal posse. _Just Lilanie,_ she breathed,though whatever Lilanie was doing lounging on the bathroom floor in the dark with a ragtag clique was beyond her comprehension. The fat one startled.

"Oh, it's all right, Hannah," Lilanie calmed with a wave of her hand. "Saskia's one of us."

"One of _what_?" Saskia asked.

"Us. Fanciers."

'Us' included Ilze, the willowy New Yorker who wrote bad Targaryen OCs who married Robb, and Hannah, the blue-haired Tumblrina from Los Angeles who thought that Robb and Theon had been hiding their secret gay relationship for years, and made too many bad .gifs of the two for her eye-rapingly bright blog. Theon – or anyone not gay but gay in fandom – was Hannah's one true love. And then there was… some girl who was crouched on the floor, holding on for dear life to the base of a standing sink. She was in the black and red garb of House Blackwood, and had long light brown hair that shook into her face as she sobbed and quaked herself into a stupor, making her look just a bit like Cousin Itt having a seizure.

"Oh, do you know Evie? That's Evie," Hannah said with a nod to the sink-clutching weirdo, "and she's batshit."

"GENDRY!" she wailed.

"Not part of the plan, Evie!" Ilze flicked a hairy spider at her. "Calm your tits! He's not here! Miss Ellie said he's teaching in Essos. It's not like he's dead!"

"GENDRY!"

"Well, um…" Saskia started. "What plan?"

"Operation Robbery. In which we rob Robb. _Soortvan_. Sort of. What I mean to say is that Robb's what we're taking," Lilanie explained. "Not, like, physically, though. We're not so bad as to kidnap."

Just then, Hannah whimpered.

"We're not rummaging through or taking his stuff, Hannah, and that's final! You're not going to find any love letters from Theon rolled up in his laundry!" Ilze hissed. "Or in his pockets! Or under his pillow! Or in Baby Ned's cot! Or anywhere!"

"But we might find 'em if we looked."

"We won't! Because he's not gay! He loves Marylean Targaryen! He loves me!"

" _Bly stil!_ You want her helping us? I mean," Lilanie continued to Saskia, "we're not really going to take Robb, just... look at him. Stare at him. If we find his chamber, of course. So we're scouting the staff quarters tonight from the outside. You know, how many windows are there and where, how anyone could break in, where are their bedrooms and common areas, that kind of thing, depending on how high we can climb. And if we find anyone's room, excellent. Unless it's, you know, like one of the kids' rooms or a dragon den or something. Ideally, we'll scout out where all the staff live, and… somehow that'll be useful. You know, for stalking and seduction and selling the information. You in?"

"You're all going?"

They all nodded.

Saskia nodded, too. "I'll go. Myself." As soon as she said it, her heart plummeted to the pit of her stomach. Hadn't she wanted to creep on Robb? Hadn't she wished she could see him happy, as he probably was undisturbed at home, far away from fangirls? It seemed so weird and invasive and wrong and deadly now, particularly when she was hearing it from Lilanie. "I can climb," she choked. "I almost got out of Lady Stark's trap, remember? And… and… it'll attract attention if we're all gone. One upset girl who skips supper because she's having a meltdown is understandable. Everyone goes, they'll suspect something."

"You're not going yourself. What if you fall?"

Saskia blanched. "Then I die, I reckon." _And get out of this mess to boot._ What the fuck had she just volunteered to do?

"All men must die," Ilze said with a sigh. It was probably the first thing Saskia had ever heard her not yell. "If we die, we die, but first we'll attempt to gaze upon Robb Stark."

* * *

Saskia returned to her chamber on the verge of being sick. Really, what the fuck had she volunteered to do, and how was she going to survive it? What if she got caught? Toasted? Dead? Did sneaking around the staff quarters, even just outside, fall into any of the 'this is what dragons can attack you for' categories that Daenerys had mentioned? Should she back out? Should she try to see Robb? Would it make her feel any better? Her heart was pounding so fast that she felt as if she were going to throw it up, and she was trembling so hard that she had to steady herself on her bed as she pulled on her PE skirt.

"What're you doing?" Orla asked, looking up from a copy of _A Clash of Kings_ thumbed through for sex scenes. "We're not allowed to wear that unless it's to Slaying."

"I… know," she said carefully, "but it's not like Tywin can tell me off for that if it's in private, can he?"

Orla shrugged. "Suppose not. You okay?"

"I'm… I'm okay, just a bit queasy," That certainly was not convincing. "Just going for a walk outside. Had a shit day and need to clear my head. Don't look for me at supper."

Lucy was sat cross-legged on her and Saskia's bed, joyful tears glistening in her blue eyes. "But burritos for tea! You can't miss burrito night! Like, for the first time in my life, I've not got to drive to Burnley or Keighley for burritos. I can just go across the courtyard. Across the courtyard, Saskia!"

"Poor dear from the grim and lonely north," Letty cooed, patting Lucy on the head. Letty reminded Saskia of an even more bored, overdramatic Mary Crawley with her flat face, obviously dyed black hair, penetrating eyes (though Letty's were very, very grey), and expression that rarely seemed to waver from stiff but sardonic amusement, just as it was now. "Welcome to burritoful civilisation, Lucy Hothersall. She's just found out about burrito night, you see," Letty explained, continuing to pet Lucy as if she were some sort of strange dog, "and I'm not sure she'll manage to act sane, poor dear."

"Do I ever, Letty? Act sane, that is?"

"Not really, no. Do sane people write 'property of Jon Snow' on their tits?"

"Yes?"

"Not sane, Luce. And I'm not hungry," Saskia muttered. If she had turned down burritos, she had turned down life.

And, indeed, she felt as if she were taking, whilst she could, a lingering, last farewell of her friends. Or so Byron had written. What was that from? _Lines Written beneath an Elm in the Churchyard of Harrow_? She almost wished she were back in London, working on that shit paper. And were Letty and Lucy and Orla her friends? Lucy was making out to be, for sure. You couldn't really share a bed and take most of the same subjects at the same time with someone and not be forced to grow close to them, especially when that person was also a pervy fancier—one who didn't fancy the same person, so there was no real competition.

She was going to miss these little scenes of somewhat domestic bliss when she was dead. Letty was now doodling a bum with a face in her _Canon for Feeble-Minded Fanbrats_ homework packet (Letty couldn't shade properly with that quill, but if she could, Saskia thought it'd be a very nice behind), and Orla and Sara, who just had come up from downstairs, were at a bullshitted game of draughts using a cyvasse board and were rambling feverish blabber about Jaime Lannister.

"Well, no, we need _un diversivo_!"

"You're in Swordfighting in the afternoon, right? Bronn says Jaime likes to visit because he used to teach swordfighting, and he _is_ Corpse Control. So you get injured at 15.05 sharp and Jaime'll bring you to the infirmary. And Brienne doesn't teach on Wednesday afternoons, and I've nothing then, either. I'll ask Brienne to tutor me whilst you're in Swordfighting, and at 15.05 sharp I'll start screaming and crying and she'll have to bring me to the infirmary. And then when they see each other carting sweet injured children, they'll think it's cute and realise how nice it would be to have wee ones of their own. They'll probably bond more if they stay to make sure we're safe."

"And then we both die because Qyburn!"

"Oh, yeah, forgot about that. Maybe not."

It was the most idiotic plan Saskia had ever heard, although the Harrenhal Moon Tea Party did come rather close—so idiotic and naïve that it made her grin. Then again, she remembered, what she was about to do now was likely at an equal level of stupidity.

Kingspyre Tower was waiting.

* * *

Kingspyre Tower was the tallest of the five in Harrenhal, and was colossal by all standards. However many metres high the tower was, it was much too tall and slippery, and Saskia knew she'd never be able to reach the top. Evie, who had chosen to spot Saskia in an attempt to perhaps locate Gendry if he happened to wander along, was actually and shockingly quiet as she glanced up at it—solemn, even, or reverent in the presence of the K2 of Harrenhal that may, if she were lucky, have been secretly sheltering that beautiful bastard and his marvellously toned abs.

Night was falling fast at this hour; it must've been 18.20 or so, according to Saskia's estimation and the complete lack of anyone hanging around anywhere that wasn't the Hall of a Hundred Hearths. As the sun sank below the cloud-streaked horizon and darkness began to settle on the sodden grass, there came a sudden rustling in the windless wood behind them that she didn't like one bit. Evie twitched, cursing under her breath (so she _did_ have a vocabulary larger than that of a Pokémon).

"I don't like the sound of that," she shivered.

"The godswood? It's just a deer or something," Saskia whispered back, trying to sound as reassuring as possible. _Or a grumpkin or a snark._

And, as much as Saskia didn't want to admit it, she was terrified.

_It's not like you're climbing the South Face of K2 without oxygen in winter_ , she told herself, regretting even more her idiotic decision. _You're just free soloing because the rope Hannah found is brittle and fucked, just free soloing a nice wee castle tower at least twenty storeys high…_ that happened to be defended by loads of tiny dragons. She'd no better off if everyone came with her, just as she wasn't with Evie here. Where _were_ the dragons, though? She'd not seen any since entering the godswood. Perhaps they were just as excited by the prospect of burritos as Lucy was, and were terrorising the pupils for bites of their food. They did guard the staff, too, and the staff were presumably all at supper, so it wasn't too odd. Right? Right?!

There was nothing for it. She had to climb. Again. Before she followed through with calling the whole stupid thing off. Crossing her heart and hoping not to die, Saskia set to her task.

She was maybe a tall storey up the tower when she spotted a well-lit slit of a window about two metres up, to the left. She'd not be able to climb through it; that much was certain. Castles were built for defence, after all, and it'd be beyond the realm of common sense to have windows in them that an enemy could easily climb through, though she did reckon she could maybe stick her head inside at the most. And if the windows did become wider higher up, well, a limit did exist to Saskia's cowardly form of daring, as well as to her physical prowess and fannish lapse of decency. But, now that she was up here, she might as well have a peek. Besides, who knew if that was Robb's chamber? She could be getting a glimpse of her one true love, her lord, her King, her Robbie, and she could also be winning the approval of half of the Hawick girls if she could actually accomplish this bullshit mission…

_Just one look. Could be Robb's chamber. Could be Jaime's, anyone's… could be Robb, crying over his behaviour towards me, or snuggling Baby Ned and Jeyne… could just be a storage room… but just another two metres up and I'm done and coming down…_

Heaving herself forward and signalling Evie to move below her, Saskia hauled herself up to the window and peered inside.

She was not prepared for what she saw.

* * *

 

Boring chapter, I know, but needed for plot. And yes, many characters and angsty Saskia (she’ll get over it and grow some balls and learn to say no), but… well, valar morghulis :D

Many thanks to Trap3r for the wonderful recommendation of [_De Re Militari_](http://www.digitalattic.org/home/war/vegetius/)! It’s been good reading, and is worth looking into if you’re writing any war-heavy ASOIAF fics, medieval-based fantasy, and/or historical fiction involving military matters. Most of Stannis and Robb’s military lessons will be based on this. Also, as we go into lectures and the like, I’ll put any resources in author’s notes at the end in case anyone will benefit from them. (Latin text of _De Re Militari_ for those who like to read the original [here](http://www.thelatinlibrary.com/vegetius1.html))

I do apologise for sporadic updates; I’m back at uni now and, even before that, life’s been a total mess of hecticness and depression. But good news: I’m doing NaNoWriMo for the first time… sort of. My goal, really, is to write 50,000 words of fanfiction, which mostly comprises of this but likely won’t totally, as I do want to be able to work on other things (like my other fic that’s on here and some one-shots; might venture into _Downton Abbey, Harry Potter,_ and Tolkien if I’m brave enough). I need to learn how to write for a sustained amount of time. Username is **ellsy** on the NaNo website if you want to befriend me x


	9. What Saskia Saw

 

 

Cats. Cats. _Cats._ Sweet baby Jesus, _cats_.

Saskia loved cats with the passion of a lonely old lady or a billionth-wave, man-hating Tumblr feminist who owned too many Modcloth jumpers emblazoned with the fluffy objects of her affection slash future eaters of her corpse, and cursed her dad for being allergic to them and her landlord for not permitting her to have one. It seemed, though, that Tommen loved them more. A lotmore.

King Tommen Baratheon, first of his name, was sprawled about on a rug in the tiny chamber in a sea of perhaps forty cats. Olly and Rickon were occupied with putting the wee things in felt House Stark armour, and Shireen and four girls who looked conspicuously like Oberyn Martell were in vain attempting to have a tea party with a gaggle of grey Maine Coon kittens that couldn't sit still and made an awful mess of the saucers. Tommen, because it was good to be the king, lay giggling and content in a massive, moving blanket of felines, although he really should have been in _Confessions: Animal Hoarding_. Even Davos, subjected to wearing a tiara and being served hairy tea by his little princess, looked wonderfully content.

A wee ginger Scottish Fold munchkin scurried across Davos' legs and burrowed into his lap, and Saskia let out a too-audible whimper she wished she could've stifled. Luckily, no one seemed to hear over the clinking of kittens rolling balls into fine china and yowling. That thing in Davos' lap was her cat dream. Some people might've dreamt of spring, but Saskia dreamt of cats (okay, and Robb Stark, too). Even now, just looking at the darling things made her feel a lot better about the ridiculous situation at hand, but if she could actually _interact_ with one…! She could die happy.

Saskia, sensing that she had lingered far too long – it was getting much too dark outside – figured she'd finally have to go, else she'd be creeping all night. She was taking a last look at those adorable darlings when the door opposite the window opened and Jaime entered, cradling an enormous tabby floof of a cat. _JAIME AND A CAT. JAIME AND A CAT. JAIME AND A CAT._ Saskia didn't like Jaime to the crazy extent that Orla did, but JAIME AND A CAT. She froze.

"Your Grace," Jaime began, "Ser Pounce has been groom—"

As he went to hand over the esteemed Ser Pounce to his sonephew, Jaime stopped mid-sentence and did a double take— and froze. He had spotted something on the wall. In the window. Jaime had spotted _her_.

_FUCK._

Scrambling to maintain her hold on the sill whilst simultaneously ducking out of the way and prodding a foot along the wall for the nearest hold in the advancing gloom, Saskia slipped. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself not to look at the ground that awaited her splattered remains. A jolt of fear went through her. _This is my last thought. I'm dying. I'm dead. Robb! Robb!_

She fell into something hard with a clinky thud. _This_ didn't feel like the warm embrace of death or the wet and muddied lawn.

Saskia slowly opened her eyes, trembling, half expecting to meet the skeletal countenance of the grim reaper. What she saw was almost worse. Someone armoured, one-eared, and very tall with a half-burnt, pus-weeping face, with half his lips burnt off and the bone of his jaw visible, was glowering at her, raging annoyance ablaze in his dark grey eyes.

"Goin' somewhere, little shit?" he grunted.

She had fallen straight into the arms of Sandor Clegane.

Sandor might've been head of Corpse Control and security at OFUW, but he was also, by his own volunteerance, kinda sorta the Hagrid of the Official Fanfiction University of Westeros— meaning, he tended the gardens and spent too much time doing gods knew what outside (other than digging graves and avoiding everyone else, that is). Why he was outside _now_ , though, was a mystery, as was how he'd managed to find her in such an odd location.

"So... can you put me down? I'm safe now you've rescued me," she tried. "I won't run away."

"I rescue little birds, girl, and bury little shits. Answer's no and no, though might be it wouldn't had you _thanked_ me. Not safe where I'm takin' you."

"Where're you taking me?"

"Bringin' you straight to Miss Ellie. Let me guess," he rasped in her ear, gripping her tighter so she'd not squirm away (not that she was even trying), "you were hopin' to get into Jon Snow's bed."

Saskia shook her head.

"Best not have been tryin' to get into mine."

"Robb," she croaked. "I just wanted to see Robb."

"Don't lie to me. Bet you were wantin' to fuck Robb."

"I just wanted to _see_ Robb." Okay, and, if given the chance, she would very much like to fuck Robb. And fuck him again. And marry him. And bear his children. And fuck him some more. And grow old and die with him. And then spend the afterlife fucking him some more.

Sandor snorted. "You can do that in your lessons, girl, every fuckin' Tuesday and Thursday. Seen you makin' eyes at him every meal, too. That not enough for you? No? Stupid fuckin' fanbrat. If I had half a mind, I wouldn't've caught your cunt arse. Fallin' from that height wouldn't kill you. Your trip to the maester would. And painfully. Should've let fallin' and Qyburn teach you a lesson."

"How'd you know I was...?" she trailed off, disturbed by the way his bony jaw moved when he gritted his teeth, how a bubble of oozy red stuff burst in a crack of his scarring. In the moonlight, his face was eerily disconcerting. How people could be convinced that Sansa thought that Sandor Clegane was sexy was absolutely beyond Saskia's comprehension. Maybe he was overprotective of innocent girls, sure, and maybe Sansa liked him for that, especially if she was traumatised by creeps like Joffrey and Littlefinger, but... ew. _This_ was the lust object of a good percentage of her peers, and that made little sense. Right now, she was probably living their dream of being rescued by this beast of a man.

"There's always one or two who try to do the stupid thing you just did. Been patrollin' here every damn night since you lot arrived, though not this early before _you_. Knew you were up to somethin' when you weren't at supper."

She made a face as if to ask what was weird about that, as she'd a mind to, but Sandor interrupted her before she could start.

"Who the cuntin' fuck skips burrito night?" he growled. "That, and you Suddenly Always Knew That™. You climbed the garden wall in Domestic Arts. Sansa says you're a climber. Your skills were useful now. If this were a fanfiction, I'd bet your wall-scalin' would come in handy later on in the fic, just as it would've done here to advance the plot."

By now, Sandor had carried her into the proper entrance to Kingspyre Tower, just around the side where she'd tried to climb. Evie would shit herself at being in Kingspyre Tower, so close to where her One True God, her Gendry, must've been hiding the whole time, because screw logic. _Evie. Shit, Evie,_ she realised far too belatedly. Where was Evie? Had the Hound seen her? Surely he had if he had followed them out here. Had the Hound taken care of her? Saskia hadn't seen Evie since she'd started her climb, as, without a harness or ropes, she hadn't dared to turn her head and look down to check on the pervy Gendry fancier. She would've known or heard if Evie had been killed. And if the Hound had followed them out here, then who – or _what_ – had been lurking in the godswood?

She hadn't any time to worry any more about Evie or the grumpkins and snarks that lived in the wood, or to marvel at the fact that she was kind of doing something _Harry Potter_ -y— going to Umbridge's office in the arms of Toasty Hagrid. Miss Ellie, with a very Umbridge-like collection of trashy American tourist trinkets and red boxes of some kind of snack cracker, was sat at her desk, a hand smooshing up her face as she leant over a massive pile of papers, her creepy pale eyebrows knitting together. She really couldn't have been any older than eighteen, and, in her Pikachu pyjamas, looked more like a pupil dying over A Level coursework than the overworked coordinator of a fictional university.

"Gods, Sandor!" she startled. "Don't you know to knock?"

"Found the Crockett girl attemptin' to weasel her way into staff quarters. It only got as far as Tommen's cat lair," he said, dropping her unceremoniously to the tile floor. She rubbed her poor assaulted arse, whimpering. "I missed burritos for this little shit. You owe me."

Miss Ellie sighed, running a hand through her hair, clearly annoyed by what Saskia assumed was a common demand. "Yes, yes, three spicy chicken burritos from The Wraps with rice, extra peppers, sweetcorn, and guac. Don't scowl so. I'm not heading into Leeds from another dimension just for that, not on Tywin's watch."

"Make that ten burritos for the wait."

"Interest does not accumulate on burritos, Sandor. If you want more than three, then you come wrangling with me next year, and we'll stay at my gran's and we'll get your damn burritos. Every day, if you like. I'd rather deal with you and Mexican and your bean farts than Ilyn and his Greggs obsession."

"Fuck your fuckin' gran. Have fun with the brat."

And with that, Sandor was gone. Jaime spilled into the room as the Hound left. He looked a lot less sexy and manly and tender when not accompanied by a cat.

"Indeed," Jaime said at long last, looking from her to Miss Ellie. "I was worried it would die. My father won't be pleased, regardless."

"He needn't worry about that, Jaime. Sandor caught it."

"I'm not an it!" Saskia howled.

Jaime just ignored her. "Does it need Qyburn's services?"

"No, I don't think it does. It only got as far up as Tommen's playroom, and if Sandor caught it besides..."

He nodded. "Best not let Qyburn anywhere near it. You know how experimental he gets with brats. Remember Zélie Patenaude and Jessica Williams in your year? Horrid. Well, if I'm not needed to cart the brat away, Eleanor, I'll leave you to business. Goodnight, Eleanor. Farewell, Miss Crockett."

_Farewell? As if he were bidding her goodbye_ _forever_ _?_

"I know what you did, Saskia Crockett, and I know why you did it. Robb, of course. Darling wee Robbie, king of your broken and pitiful heart. Why else? You are beyond my authority to punish outright, luckily for you. This is a decision for Lord Tywin."

_Lord Tywin? Luckily for me? No. Crap._

"Whilst I'm gone," Miss Ellie continued, "you may find it worth your while to start your archery homework."

"What?" Archery homework? She didn't know when she even _had_ archery, because this university was an administrative nightmare, and barely anyone had been informed of when their Slaying lessons were to take place before now. "We've an assignment before we've even started the subject? With no reference materials or textbooks given ahead of time, with no access to Google? When I don't even know when I _have_ archery?"

"Seven in the morning in the Whent Gallery. It wouldn't be torture if you hadn't to wake up early and do homework. We do take that learning through pain and torture thing very seriously here." She grinned, just a bit evilly. "Do your work, sweet summer child. Yes, of course Tywin may do whatever he sees fit to do with you. But if you live and haven't got your work done, I cannot promise that you won't be hurt in a way more painful and lingering than Tywin Lannister is able to concoct. Wouldn't chance that if I were you."

"But I've not got my homework!"

"Oh, sweet summer child, don't look at me like that. You all received your Slaying assignments and new timetables at supper. Of course I won't fetch it for you. I'm not waking Ygritte just so you can have a copy."

"But it's like eight at night! She can't be sleeping!"

"I don't care what she's actually doing. The point of the matter is that you would have received your work had you not skipped supper to stupidly attempt to climb Kingspyre Tower, and that you won't get that work because you chose desperate idiocy. This university and this world do not revolve around you, Saskia Crockett, and my staff are not subject to your demands at any hour of any day. This is what happens when we make wrong decisions. Robb made an unwise decision as well, didn't he? And look where that got him. Dead. Mind where yours get you."

When it came to academics, Saskia thrived on the thrill of getting work done barely on time. There was something about the rush of impending failure and no more time to put anything off or agonise over the mark she'd be getting that worked for Saskia. Then again, back home in England, none of her teachers and lecturers had been temperamental and armed with sharp things as they tended to be in Westeros. _I'm clever. I can bullshit my way through anything. Or can I? There's no way I can get out of this._ She sniffled, wiping her nose on the tattered sleeve of the unsightly blue PE jumper that must've ripped on her climb somehow. Never in her life had she wanted so much to do homework, and never in her life had she wanted so much to crawl into a hole and die so that she'd not be killed more brutally elsehow.

Miss Ellie poked her head out the door. "Alvilda, you may come in now. I'm to fetch Lord Tywin. Shame Saskia Crockett in the interim, and shame her relentlessly. Dolores Ed, Thormund," she said to something behind her, "do your duty."

In her climb-and-fall-and-convinced-she-was-toast-induced daze, she hadn't noticed the dragons—dragons with which she was now locked in a draughty office, alone, without their mother or Miss Ellie to placate them should they become cross or hungry. Dolores Ed, the black one, nipped at her when she tried to get up to stretch her legs and move closer to the fire blazing in the hearth near the window, and she settled back on the floor, shaking from the cold. Thormund, an enormous orange dragon, was leering at her. Thormund's dick was so huge and heavy that it couldn't drag the combined weight of its body and its gargantuan schlong across the floor, so the membery thing resorted to straining to get at her and hissing at her from where it was stuck next to Miss Ellie's desk. If the thing weren't so dead-set on, she feared, trying to eat her, she would've found it hilarious that its dick, maybe twenty centimetres thick, was long enough to wrap around the desk and touch the far side of the wall a few paces away.

Alvilda, the Shame Septa, could get to her, though, and did. "SHAME. SHAME. SHAME," she scolded. _Ding ding ding,_ went her irritating bell, right in Saskia's face. "SHAME. SHAME. SHAME."

"Stop. Please. Just… stop," Saskia groaned, rolling over on her stomach. The smell of dragon piss, acidic and rotting, filled her nostrils. "I've had— a mess— of a day," she gagged. "Please… just stop. I get it. Shame. Shame. Shame."

"SHAME. SHAME. SHAME." _Ding ding ding._ "SHAME. SHAME. SHAME." _Ding ding ding._

If the Shame Septa was anything, she was persistent. Annoyingly persistent. Irrefutably persistent. Shamefully persistent. But, after a miserable half hour of _shame shame shame ding ding ding shame shame shame ding ding ding shame shame shame ding ding ding shame shame shame ding ding ding_ , the Shame Septa appeared to grow bored, and then turned to shaming Miss Ellie's pot plant, a cabinet, and the wall of Cheez-Its for an hour each before slinking out of the room, shaming the door as she went.

It was now about midnight, Saskia guessed, and she was going to either die of exposure or boredom or the headache she'd got from that goddamned _ding ding ding_ bell. She was going to die. Robb was never going to know the depths of her love, and she'd never know the depths of his. What would he think of her now? Probably not very highly of her, that was sure, not that he had felt kindly towards her before; the thought tore at her poor mangled heart. Robb was never going to love her, and he definitely wasn't _now_ , now that she'd tried to creep on him.

Tywin Lannister finally, after aeons, arrived with Miss Ellie in tow — as usual, quietly smouldering with annoyance — just as Saskia was beginning to drift off.

"Rise, Saskia Crockett," he seethed. Stumbling over her own legs and violently sucking the snot back into her nose, she stood, head bowed before Tywin.

"I'm—" _sorry and never going to do that again_ , she had meant to say, as if _that'd_ do her any good now.

"You are to be quiet at once and stop snivelling. Look at me, Saskia Crockett. I will make myself clear, and for once in your paltry life, you will _listen_. You are not a clever little darling. You are not to return to this tower ever again, unless it is to my solar or to Eleanor's. You will never attempt another stunt again, and you will make no mentions of your escapade. Am I understood?"

"Yes. Can… can I have my archery homework?!"

Tywin's mudkippy cheeks flared as he glared at her. " _Am I understood_ , Saskia Crockett?"

"Yes!" she sniffled. "Can I have my archery homework?!"

"I do not have it, and neither does Miss Ellie. And do not so much as dare to think about trying to sneak into the staff quarters for a copy."

"I—"

"Goodnight, Felicia."

And Miss Ellie slammed the door in her face.

* * *

That morning, Saskia tried to relax. Key word: tried. She had finally had her bath, got through five chapters of _A Game of Thrones_ without sobbing over Robb, and got two hours of sleep. She was _fine_. Totally, one hundred percent fine, and, she reminded herself, totally, one hundred percent not dead, and the same amount of lucky. She'd best not question why or how she was still here.

Lilanie, Hannah, and Ilze were also fine, albeit disappointed that no information other than 'Tommen is an animal hoarder' had been found. Lucy was _not_ fine – she was going to meet Oberyn soon, and Oberyn was sexy, and _oh my god Sass he's so hot when he's handling spears and talking and just existing I love him I think I want to bear him more daughters I don't even like or want kids but OBERYN! Like look at him he even eats streaky bacon sexily! Did you see him up there or just cats was he interacting with cats?!_ – and she'd stayed up too late worrying about Saskia to boot, so she was just a bit strung out and sleepy in addition to her usual rabid fangirlishness.

As Saskia downed her fifth mug of ale at breakfast, twitching like a defective Tickle Time Elmo from lack of sleep and nerves, she pored over the homework packet that Letty had brought down to finish, sulking something mighty. Even if she couldn't _do_ the work, at least she could glance at it and could not feel so utterly daft and useless.

_This is the string. It is a string_ , Saskia read from Letty's labelling of an illustration of a bow. Gods, Letty was a genius. _It gets taut and makes a shooty thing go flying. This is the thing you grab. It's made of wood, like a witch. This is an arrow, otherwise known as a shooty thing. It will kill you if someone shoots you in the face or the heart or the neck, like Pyp. That was so cool. (PS: Hypothetically, if I shot Mr Blobby in the crotch at close range, would he die on impact or from an infection? Please tell me. <3, Letty Katniss Postlethwaite). _To the question, 'What are some general differences between crossbows and longbows?', Letty had written, _Crossbows are better for slaughtering whores, a la Joffrey. It's best to shoot face, tits, balls, like Arya and Joffrey did_. _A crossbow's got a cross and a longbow is long. (PS: Which do you recommend for killing Mr Blobby? PPS: When Jon and Theon and Robb are together, who's the centre of the fuck sandwich? Jon? I need to know. <3, Letty)_

Saskia wouldn't have done any better with bullshitting the assignment, though _she_ would have sounded much less crazed about uncanonical gay sex and murder. If she was going to be punished or beaten or shot non-fatally for not having done her homework, it was a small comfort to think that maybe Letty would receive the same treatment – or worse – for doing hers so inappropriately and idiotically. Although… she probably would've ended up writing crap about Robb somehow.

Pouring herself another half pint of ale, she glanced up in search of Robb, darling wee Robbie (that sounded weird and stalkerish and obsessive now that Miss Ellie had said that to her). There he was with Jeyne, wearing a lovely shade of green again, looking just as attractive as he had been yesterday. Robb gave Jeyne a quick kiss and took Baby Ned from her, bouncing him in his arms as he brought the wee lad to Auntie Sansa and Uncle Tyrion for some snuggles. _Does Robb even remember that I exist? Does he know about the Robbery? Does Jeyne? Who_ does _know? Rickon, Olly, Tommen, Shireen, the little Sand Snakes, Davos, Jaime, Sandor, Tywin, Miss Ellie, and the Shame Septa. And the dragons. And Ilze, Hannah, Lilanie, and Evie._

_Shit, Evie._ She'd forgot about Evie again—who was, thankfully, alive. Evie was sat at the far end of the Blackwood table all the way to the right of the hall, very close to the high table, at which she was staring rather wistfully. Shoving the crazily bullshitted homework packet back at Letty, Saskia leapt up and rushed over to Evie.

"I didn't know you had friends in House Blackwood, Miss Crockett."

Brienne was looking right at her, an eyebrow raised.

"I, um… I do. Evie's great. We met in the bathroom," she said stupidly.

Brienne said nothing. She just continued to stare at Saskia in a manner that could only be described as penetrating and perturbing in how unwavering it was. Did she know? Had Jaime told her? (What was their relationship to each other, anyway? In any case, it wasn't romantic enough to be Orla Dwyer-approved.)

"I… um… Evie and I are very good friends," she lied, absolutely and totally unconvincingly. "I'm going to have tea with my _friend_ , thanks."

"Did you find You-Know-Who?" Evie whispered once Brienne had left. "Did you die?"

"Um… no?" It took Saskia a long second to realise that no, Evie was not asking about Voldemort. Heck, she probably wasn't even asking about Robb. "I didn't find Robb, just… cats. Tommen has a fuckload of cats. It looked like his playroom. But… way more cats than toys. Like, dozens of cats. Even a ginger Scottish Fold munchkin kitten."

"And that's _it_?" She twisted her fork into her sausage, pouting desperately. "That's _it_?"

"I didn't find Gendry, if that's what you're asking," Saskia whispered, knowing full well that it was. "Just Tommen and friends. And cats. And then I fell and you were already gone."

Evie's pale green eyes widened. "You _fell_? How are you still alive?"

"The Hound caught me. He'd been stalking us."

"Oh. Ilyn got me when you were at the window. He had me in his office all night until Tywin came to tell me never to do it again. The shame nun came to shame me and Ilyn just sat there making weird noises. It was awful."

"So he didn't punish you?"

"Nah. But, if I'm honest, I don't feel good about it. I hear they don't let you get away with anything here, and we got off scot-free. Mostly. I don't think a Tywin beatdown's totally scot-free." She stiffened, jerking her head as subtly as she could in the direction of the high table. "They're watching us over there. You should go."

Saskia spun around. Indeed, they were. Or at least Jaime, Brienne, Davos, Sandor, and Tyrion were.

Maybe if she apologised to Miss Ellie, she'd feel better and shake off that nagging, sickening feeling that something was wrong. Maybe, if anything truly was wrong, she'd change Miss Ellie's mind by apologising, and the staff watching her would realise she truly _was_ sorry and not harm her.

She sulked over to Miss Ellie. Ramsay was already occupying her attention, standing just a bit too close to her near a blazing hearth and grinning as he was overeagerly spouting crazed bullshit.

"She can take much more than fifty armed and unskilled brats in single combat! I believe in her!"

"No, Ramsay."

"She's a beautiful, strong wildling woman who don't need no artillery support. Or two against, if Ygritte's safety's an issue?" he offered hopefully, patting the hilt of the sword sheathed at his side. "I'm very good at what I do, and you'd not want her to _die_ , I'm sure, now that you're reformed and not murderous anymore. How many times did you kill her in your fics? Just once? That's unlike you, Eleanor. You don't want to make it once for real, do you?"

"I am no longer murderous. Do not tempt me, Ramsay."

"If you're truly no longer murderous, why can't I tempt you?" Ramsay smirked. "Anyway, if that doesn't tickle your fancy or hers, we can lock the brats in the gallery, put a couple of bows out for them to squabble over, and tell them it's the Hunger Games. Poison the arrows to be sure. Oberyn's got enough of that manticore venom, hasn't he? Winner is promised the lust object of his or her choice, and the prize of an axe to the face. But we won't mention the axe part."

Saskia, from a safe distance, paled.

Ramsay's face fell when he noticed Miss Ellie's deadpan glare, really not unlike that of Grumpy Cat. The stare, however, did not dampen his insane drive for more than a fraction of a second.

"The dragons can feed on their remains for easy disposal if you don't want Sandor, Jaime, and Hodor hauling corpses for days. The venom won't harm them. The dragons, I mean. I don't care about Sandor or Jaime or Hodor," he babbled, shrugging.

"When you are on the teaching or administrative staff of this university," Miss Ellie said through gritted teeth, "and that will be never, we will be more than happy to take your suggestions only a minuscule bit more seriously. You are a vuvuzela player and human alarm clock, not an instructor, and had I wanted you on staff, I would have hired you when I fired Anguy. I did not."

"You need another archery instructor."

" _Not you_ , definitely not you, and not Myranda or Joffrey's corpse, either _._ I am trying to recruit that giant who can shoot spears over a seven-hundred-foot wall. Piss off."

"Miss Ellie- I…"

"Whatever do you want, Saskia Crockett?" she sighed.

"I just… wanted to apologise. For last night. For… attempting Robbery. For climbing the walls. For spying on Tommen. For seeing what I saw. For being a brat and a twat and a Robb whore. I'm sorry, and it'll never happen again. Promise."

Miss Ellie's voice was strangely soft. "Thank you, Saskia. Is there anything else you need to tell me?"

_Does she expect me to confess to something else? What more have I even got to confess? That Evie was there too? That Lilanie and the others came up with the idiotic idea of it all, and were actually going to do it even if I hadn't come along, maybe?_ She shook her head and started to walk away, but then she noticed that Ramsay had moved back to the high table, and stopped dead in her tracks.

Ramsay had forcibly seated himself between Jon and Ygritte, an arsecheek uncomfortably on each of their chairs, and was helping himself to Jon's food as Jon glowered and he calmly, coolly proposed something. Saskia couldn't hear much over the usual chatter and clatter in the hall, but she did hear _death_ and _poisoned arrows_ and _Harrenhal Hunger Games_ in dulcet, soothing tones. Ygritte was looking to Jon and very intently at Ramsay, but she wasn't doing anything to discourage the madder of the bastards other than slapping his hand away from her wine. Was… was she _listening_ to Ramsay?! It definitely seemed like she was, particularly now when they were fucking _shaking hands_ and Ramsay was grinning dementedly, almost like the Cheshire Cat on a inconceivable amount of cocaine.

_Oh, fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. I'm_ _fucked_ _,_ Saskia realised. _They're conspiring to kill us._ _I'm going to die today._

Fighting the urge to be sick all over herself, she rushed back to Miss Ellie.

"Can… can I switch to swordfighting? There's still space with Bronn, right?"

"Sweet summer child, no. I spent far too much time dividing all two hundred of you aspiring archers into smaller classes without impacting your other studies. Afraid of Bolton's bastard, are you? Fear does cut deeper than swords and arrows, you know. If it's any consolation, just about everyone dislikes Ramsay. Is that all now?"

Saskia muttered yes, and slinked off. Her head was spinning as she twisted through the aisles back to her seat, near reeling. Was it just her, or had Miss Ellie been kind again? She had gone through the same fear, perhaps, although Saskia knew she'd learnt the sword with Jaime years ago, before he lost his hand. It wouldn't be that unlikely an explanation, of course, but, deep down inside, Saskia knew that something wasn't right. Either Miss Ellie was tired, or forgetful (no, it couldn't be; she never forgot), or… no, something wasn't right at all, because Miss Ellie was not kind, ever, unless it was in a condescending way, and hadn't she been the only pupil ever condemned to this place for being a murderous writer? Like, she'd been nice enough to call Saskia by her Christian name, not 'sweet summer child'. And Lady Stark been suddenly nice, too, before locking everyone outside in the rain with a bunch of irritable dragons. And Ramsay. Ramsay was mad and Ygritte was kind of cray-cray. Would she be even more cray-cray over Saskia not having her homework done? And they were shaking hands over something something Hunger Games. Which meant death. Ouchy, shooty, painful death.

"Okay there, Sass?"

She shook her head.

"I'm going to die today, Lucy," she choked with Jojenesque assurance. "I'm going to die today."

* * *

*Feel a burning need to shame yourself? Go to shamenun dot com get the full shame experience.


	10. Bowed, Bent, Broken, Dead

Despite that she was certain she was going to die within the next two and a half hours, everything felt peculiarly ordinary to Saskia, as if she were in a strange, dreamlike calm before the inevitable storm. Perhaps everything was peculiarly ordinary in an Official Fanfiction University of Westeros way, from her four days' experience of it. All the pupils were dressed like villagers out of the Safety Dance music video in their brightly-coloured PE clothing, and the only things missing were a midget and a maypole. Archery was very inconveniently held inside a large gallery a fifteen-minute walk from the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, with a fuckload of little dragons circling overhead. A death-thin, mulleted loony who spoke in a rattle was pitching an asinine fit about Jaime not looking like Nikolaj Coster-Waldau and Ygritte not looking like Rose Leslie (the only reason he'd signed up for archery, according to his screams), despite still having a hand itching at the pocket of his trousers as Ilyn Payne rattled back at him. Such sights were quickly and oddly becoming the very picture of normalcy.

The only thing _not_ normal about the whole situation and setting was the presence of that freckly wee shit who killed Jon Snow. He was looking right at Saskia, and he was looking downright vicious.

It was well-known around the university that Olly despised fanbrats. A lot. With every fibre of his tiny, adorable, hardcore, revengeful being, with the burning hatred that, in show canon, he reserved for wildlings. It was rumoured that the poor boy's hatred stemmed from the loss of innocence he experienced when he found not one, not two, but a good several explicit stories about Jon, his hero and adoptive father, at least in this canon, brutally violating him with dildoesque vegetables. It did, undeniably, sound traumatising, and the slew of fans around now to attack and pester his hero was enough to make him rage and plot to stab them. Under Jon and Ygritte's roof and tutelage, though, Olly was resigned to just kicking fanbrats in the groin with brass-toed boots and hoping that they (the brats, not the boots or his adoptive parents) met unfortunate, totally accidental ends. If you were in Archery, Olly was there. Waiting in the shadows. For you to fall and cower so he could be permitted to beat you without Jon grounding him. So he could, if he were lucky and you were not, calmly watch an arrow pierce your heart, or a dragon toast and eat you. He had been the best archer in his hamlet, and he wanted you dead.

That was the story that Letty had gleefully told everyone on their way to the gallery, and Saskia was inclined to believe it, despite that the 'adopting Olly' thing was totally uncanonical and irrational, because he'd totally killed them both and loathed wildlings. Then again, there were stranger uncanonical happenings going on here, like that fat cook, Lord Something, who wanted to eat Khaleesi's dragons and communicated via wheezing and some sort of scooter Morse code. Here Olly was, murderous and staring Saskia down from where he stood guarding a pile of bows. She hadn't done anything regarding Jon Snow that he could hate her for – well, other than associating with Lucy – but had he caught a glimpse of her last night?

_Crap._ Wringing her empty, homeworkless hands and avoiding meeting Olly's death glare, Saskia slowly marched into the gallery as if in time to her own funeral dirge, down the long aisle, down the long, long room, down to the table where she'd have to sign in with Ygritte– who was, to Saskia's burgeoning horror, having an uncanonical friendly chat with Jaime fookin' Lannister, of all people.

"I'll give it to you it's very kind to spare babies and children the pain of being slaughtered, at least in show canon. I can't say I've never harmed a child to the point of permanently crippling it," Jaime was saying. "Gilly's boy I can understand. But sparing and adopting _Olly_? You could've shot him and spared everyone in the Seven Kingdoms from his cuntery. Just look at him. Look deep into the soulless eyes of that Jon-betraying, piss flap-faced little weasel, and tell me he's not appalling."

"An' you coulda spared us all th'orrors o' Joffrey. Whose kid's worse, now?"

"Yours. Worse than Hitler, too, I'm told, whoever that is. I hate to admit that Miss Dwyer is right in any regard, but you and Jon should trade in that festering shit of a child and have one of your own. Meryn Trant'll give you a fair sum for him."

"I… homework," Saskia squeaked, eyes darting from the roster she'd just ticked to Ygritte to Jaime to her hands to her feet to Olly glaring stabby daggers at the Cryptkeeper by his bows to somewhere off in space somewhere to her hands to Ygritte again, still trembling. "Don't have. Sorry. I was…" _kinda horribly trying to stalk your boyfriend-husband-whatever's brother?_

"Saskia, is it? Ten points from 'Awick, then."

That was very anticlimactically it? This was Westeros, and she was only getting a demerit and an annoyed glance, not brutally shot full of arrows by someone known to brutally shoot people full of arrows? What the hell?

Saskia must've frozen or looked confused or something, because Ygritte, out of nowhere, laughed. "Wha'? Ya askin' t' be murdered? T' be forbidden puddin' wi' tea for a week? Somethin' _awful_?"

"No… no thank you," Saskia whispered, her fists and mouth and arse all clenching. She rerealised that Jaime was smirking at her. She realised that Jaime existed, that Jaime was here, that Jaime had found her last night and had briefly spoken to her in Miss Ellie's solar. _Fuck._ "What're youdoing here?" she choked.

"Corpse Control are always needed on the first day of Slaying," Jaime said, looking straight into her eyes with a fresh seriousness and duty that perturbed her immensely, "and Sandor prefers not to be around this many dragons. There are never quite so many corpses and dragons with Oberyn."

There were a lot of dragons about, it was true. Barister, Gragor, Nedderd, Carl Drogo, Devos, Jayme, Turyian, Manse Raydar, Obreyn, Ser Allisters Thornes, Cersai, Geoffrey, Margry, Lisa Arren, and even little Ricken were nesting in the windowsills, in the rafters, on and under the disused tables pushed up against the side walls of the gallery, on the targets on the far side of the room… and, very soon, if the rumours about archery lessons and what she'd overheard at breakfast were true, there would likely be a lot of corpses about, too. Yes, loads and loads of corpses, red corpses, bled corpses, feasted-on-by-dragons corpses. Her own, probably, would fall just there beneath the window as she clamoured to escape hellfire and shooty things and…

Ygritte snorted. "Ya always stare off like you're watchin' yer brains desert ya?"

"Well, it is a fanbrat. Its brains left it long ago. Miss Crockett, what Ygritte means is 'shoo, and go find yourself your equipment'. In this _lifetime_ , Miss Crockett. Shoo." And Jaime waved her away with a fly swatter… wherever he had got one of those from.

She'd rather have found a hole to die in, or maybe another ten pints of ale—even, as it was, whilst she felt as if she'd be needing to piss long before this lesson finished.

She did as she was told, though, and sulked over to Letty, who had once shot the outer ring of a target at a Renaissance festival when she was on holiday in Arizona when she was twelve, or so she'd bragged earlier in the week, and who was clearly over the moon at holding an actual weapon (which were indeed theirs and at their own draw weight, accompanied by personalised arrows of the appropriate length, because that was the benefit of the administration creepily knowing most things about you). Far over the moon. So far that she seemed practically in another universe, grey eyes glazed with wonder and probably murderiness as she stared down upon her new bow and quiver of shooty things. Eve, too, was so possessed, so like her stinking-pet-taming lord about to hunt, and chittering so very, very loudly to Flannery, who was convulsing with glee as she caressed her brand new murder toy.

"We'll be having loads of fun, won't we, Saskia?" Letty breathed.

"Don't think so, no."

She would probably be having a headache instead—you know, if she didn't snuff it. Ygritte had to keep reiterating and reiterating and reiterating and reiterating some more over the shrieky howls of Kayleigh Evans and company that no, none of them would ever get to bone Jon because she was doing an excellent job of that already (thrice that morning, she had to note in the torturous interest of narrative overshare), and no, Jon was not boning Sansa, Arya, Daenerys, Theon, Robb, Grenn and Pyp, the Great Other, Sam, Janos Slynt's decapitated head (because of course Esther would ship it), Jorah, Oberyn, Catelyn, Davos, Stannis, or Draco Malfoy on the side. You also weren't going to become an archery prodigy in minutes unless you were a Mary Sue ( _but I am_ , Saskia thought, o _r Lyalyah is…_ ), and you weren't allowed to be one of those here, to the screamy chagrin of half the fifty or so girls present.

"M'ladyyyyyyy!" the Cryptkeeper moaned out of absolutely nowhere. "What does Jon Snow taste like?"

"Misery an' disappointment, tha's what. Though 'alf th' time," Ygritte said with a rather smarmy grin, "'e tastes like me own cunt."

The obscene, ear-splitting wails the Cryptkeeper, Kayleigh, and the Jon fangirls and shippers made at that sounded akin to something Saskia would've otherwise suspected as coming from a pack of dying velociraptors.

Even Letty, who usually appeared so calm and regal, or would in Saskia's mind if Saskia hadn't known she was into weird gay Starkcest featuring Theon and violence, was out of her goddamned mind.

"Pick me! Pick me me me me me me me meeeeeeeeeee! I wanna kill stuff!" Letty whined over at least twenty others doing the exact same thing (sans desire to 'kill stuff') when Ygritte asked for a volunteer, jumping up and down and wildly waving her arms in a desperate bid for attention like a moron attempting flagless semaphore. "I'm better than Katniss Everdeen! I'm so awesome you won't know what hit you!"

A brown-haired lad in the horde near them laughed. "Probably an arrow, given your skill."

"Yeah? You're no better, Matt!"

"My _ears_ , Letty!" Saskia howled.

By the end of a rather noisy hour, Saskia had learnt _some_ things, and Ygritte would never be able to mockingly tell her otherwise. She'd been so focussed despite the noise, even, and Ygritte had been so normal and not 'murdery for no reason' that Saskia forgot about Ramsay and the Hunger Games. Saskia could now name the parts of a bow, and knew how to hold one, how not to draw the string (not to your chest as she'd thought you were supposed to do), and how to position herself to shoot. And she knew now, grudgingly, that your OCs should never, ever, ever, ever shoot Bran's target instead of Arya, because everyone did that and everyone thought that the way to a ladylike yet feisty OC was to have her best her brothers – and sister – at archery, through no original writing of their own. Lyalyah wasn't a Stark, though, so she was in the clear, maybe. Lyalyah was skilled with daggers, and, naturally, was an archery prodigy, because all strong female characters apparently had to be sassy and had to have hobbies involving weapons— to the point of being able to shoot a bullseye from a hundred metres away on her second try ever.

Robb noticed his betrothed's amazing skills as soon as she showed up in Winterfell and learnt from Arya, of course. _Robb was compelled to watch Lyalyah sneak up on Bran's practice, noticing the way her back arched and relaxed as the tension left her supple white body—those thin arms, that delicately curved backside. He marvelled at the blueness of her eyes and the sincerity of her smile, and felt his loins quiver._

Saskia was far too deep into this sappy reverie as she bent over her equipment, preparing to shoot for the first time— _It was almost as if Lyalyah shot him through the heart with quarrels of love, leaving gaping wounds no maester could cure. "She's so special," Robb thought, "and so beautiful." But Lyalyah would sooner put an arrow through his thick skull than love the man to whom her father had so cruelly betrothed her. Laughing as she gave a sarcastic courtesy to Bran (who loved her, of course), Lyalyah scurried off back to her chambers—_

— when there was a loud and sudden cry from somewhere above.

"HAPPY HUNGER GAMES! MAY THE GODS NEVER BE IN YOUR FAVOUR!" _PPPPTTTRRRRPPPRRRTTT!_

* * *

Imagine the scene, dear reader: afar a sodden tourney-field at Harrenhal, a drenched mass of eleven pupils were sat huddled around a smouldering fire on their haunches, shivering and shaking—though some, it seemed, were not shivering for cold. If there were only one thing that Lucy knew… Oberyn was fit and that mead was _potent_. Her fingers were tingly, her legs jittery, and she felt wonderful. And cold. And well jiggered, because Saskia had been a massive idiot and they'd both stayed up too late. And Oberyn was fit, all right? Okay, that was more than one thing. And she was off her head and the flask she'd stolen from the kitchens was _still_ three-fourths full, and Damien Forshaw, who was too Gay for Oberyn to function, and that crazed half-Indian girl, Amy Moore, who seemed to have the attention span and cognitive abilities of a crack-addicted goldfish, were squeeing much too loudly about pointy sticks.

Lucy took a long sip, hoping and praying to the old gods and the new that these lessons with Oberyn would be as intimate as she'd heard they were. Sadly, though, they weren't intimate the way that Lucy would have liked. Because most of the girls tended to think that they were Katniss Everdeen and wrote Mary Sue fics in which their sassy protagonists were skilled archers, and most of the lads were obsessed with Valyrian steel swords, very few people took Oberyn's spearfighting lessons. Lucy wasn't personally quite sure _what_ the fascination was with swords, but she reckoned that nothing could come between a Gary Stu and his shiny, sharp, Valyrian steel pseudo-phallus.

By the time she spotted Oberyn a minute later, Lucy had chugged the rest of the mead. _Oberyn. Gods, Oberyn,_ she thought, her brain swaying weirdly in her skull. _Oberyn,_ pile of spears in his lithe and strong and sexy arms, walking towards them all with the swagger he could manage laden so. In her daze of randiness and drunkenness, she briefly was fascinated by and subsequently forgot a wee pink spray bottle clipped to Oberyn's belt, bouncing as he walked towards them with the Hound. Oberyn, laughing about something with Sandor, wheeling a massive closed box trolley cart thing through the muck beside him. Sandor, strong and masculine and burnt and gruff and _fit_ —

"I am Oberyn of the House Martell, spearmaster at the Official Fanfiction University of Westeros, as likely you know," said Oberyn. He did continue to talk about himself and his experience with spears and such, but Lucy heard essentially nothing. _So fit,_ she thought, staring deep at his brown eyes, staring just a bit too drunkenly at how his orange tunic clung to his muscly chest.

"Shouldn't monologue," Sandor grunted. "That's how you die. And Tywin," he said, taking a swig from his own enormous flask, "doesn't like it when you die. 'Cept maybe he liked it when Oberyn did."

Damien was much too interested in the shiny phallic spears and _not_ in listening to Oberyn, and stood there eyeing them, intermittently fanning himself as he watched Oberyn set some aside with his manly, strong, sexy hands. He watched the box cart thing, too, as Lucy did (what could possibly need to be transported out here in such a ridiculous thing?), and reached out to touch it.

"Do not touch the pointy sticks. They may or may not be poisoned with this," Oberyn said, brandishing that wee spray bottle at his belt. "It may be very diluted manticore venom, but it will kill in strong enough doses, in enough sprays from the squirty squirt. And do not touch the box, Mr Forshaw, Miss Hothersall, unless you should like to die today."

"If you don't want us touching it," Amy asked, ignoring Lucy's laughter at the phrases 'touching it' and 'sprays from the squirty squirt', "then why bring it?"

"Very special spears. For _later_ , children. You will see."

"Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck!" someone howled.

Damien had touched the head of one of the spears, and stood there cradling his slashed hand, bleeding and howling furiously.

"Mr Forshaw does not listen or believe me. Mr Forshaw will be sadly deceased within the hour," Oberyn said with a feigned, half-regretful smirk, "unless he should find his way to a maester at once. Qyburn will not hurt him, I am sure."

"Who's Qyburn?!" Damien managed to yelp through all the pain.

"A friend to all fanbrats, summer child. You will find him in his lair in the Wailing Tower cellar, third level down, fourth door to the left. Go at once, and try not to die. Take Miss Deane with you."

With Damien gone, Oberyn was finally able to hook them all up with spears. Grip the shaft like so, he'd told them, sending Lucy into convulsions of perverted, stomach-upsetting laughter. As Oberyn explained, some spears were for throwing, some for stabbing, some for slashing, and some were better for twirling and looking right manly, though Lucy could barely tell you anything at all about any of them or when and why to use them in combat, despite Oberyn's explanations. And Oberyn's was best for fucking. He'd even shown them how to hold these spears—in the centre, in the shaft—and set them to work at once whilst Sandor sat growling and drinking over that damn box thing, and Oberyn worked.

Lucy twirled her spear – pitifully, kind of – in her left hand, spinning with oafish incoordination into the nearest tree.

"It fights like a show-version Sand Snake. No swiftness. No strength. Nothing in _here_ —" Oberyn slapped her head as passed by to inspect her grip on her spear, "—but Loki and hair and Kit Harington's naked arse."

"It's… it's a right mint arse!" Lucy protested, rubbing her aching head. "Cave lightin' don't do it any justice!"

"That was a stunt ass, you dumb-dumb!" hissed an American Jon fangirl who was obsessed enough to know that sort of thing.

"But have you seen Jon's? Perfection."

"Yes, very nice," Oberyn conceded. He leaned over her, brushing against her back. A rage of _OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD HE'S TOUCHING ME BY ACCIDENT OH MY GOD_ raged through her addled, mead-hazy mind, and Lucy welly swooned. Breathing deeply, she leaned back into him. "But don't grip it so. It must be done with strength," he said, covering her hand with his own and clasping it with firmness around the shaft of the spear, "yet delicately enough to manoeuvre, as if you are handling a more fleshy shaft. You do not grip cocks like _this_ ," he squeezed her hand _hard_ , enough to hurt, "Miss Hothersall?"

"N… no…"

"Good."

By the time they'd spent a while gripping and twirling the stabby-stabby twirl sticks (maybe an hour or so, but Lucy could no longer tell), Lucy's head was buzzing and spinning madly, and she slumped to the ground, defeated by mead and was, essentially, absolutely out of it. At home in the real world, she'd prided herself on being a damn good drunk, on being able to knock back far too much cider and be totally fine the next morning. But whatever in that mead was _potent_ , and Oberyn had touched her, and held her hand, and squeezed her hand, so, really, she had many excuses to be absolutely out of it.

"What is the point of a Slaying lesson if you do not slay?" she heard when she was at last paying attention again somewhat, after gods knew how long. "Why call it Slaying at all?"

"Not true," Sandor said. "They do slay. Ygritte's brats do an excellent job of shootin' each other. Anguy's, bless his whoremongerin' heart, did even better than that. Or worse. And if it were up to Bronn, they'd all be slayin' pussy."

Lucy's heart raced so fast she swore she'd puke all over the grass beneath her. Wait, why was she sitting down and not shaking a spear? Why were Amy and Imogen and Jessica doing the same? Was Letty alive? Was Saskia? If anyone was, it was probably Letty, who had done her homework, didn't get off on climbing things she shouldn't climb, and didn't piss off the staff with her whinging and sulking and sneaking off to stalk people. Then again, if hell broke loose in archery, Saskia would be one of the first to hide in a cupboard and cry, but Letty would probably just stupidly stand there and scream. And die. By now, though, Letty had probably accidentally or not-so-accidentally killed Saskia, Flannery, Kayleigh, Archibald, and the equivalent population of a small micronation if she herself weren't keeled over. And was wee Orla okay? Lucy doubted Orla would get into too much trouble with a sellsword as experienced as Bronn, but if she annoyed him or the dragons enough, and annoy Orla was very wont to do… fuck. Soon enough, Lucy reckoned, she and her friends would all be dead, but at least she herself would die happy in the presence of almighty sexiness.

"In any case, we're slayin' today," said Sandor. He opened the box. "Our cunty little secret."

Their little secret was not quite so little.

_The… the Mountain?!_ Bound very firmly with ropes, helmeted, and marked with odd paints lay the prone form of Gregor fuckin' Clegane, or what had been Gregor fuckin' Clegane before Oberyn had poisoned him and Qyburn had done some weird shit on him. Lucy couldn't tell. It seemed human enough, and Clegane-y enough, but beneath its helmet and likely fresh from Qyburn, who knew what exactly the Mountain was? Several of her classmates yelped, scurrying back as far as they could from the massive mound of likely drugged or slightly undead flesh.

"CLEGANEBOWL!" several fanboys cried.

"A misnomer. Not a very little secret."

"A cunty one, though," Sandor snarled.

"Today we will teach you how to slay. Just today, mind. The body has many nice soft bits that bleed and leak and prolong suffering. A stab here to the liver, for one," Oberyn continued, nudging the painted purple mark on the Mountain's stomach with the butt of his spear, "will cause massive bleeding and death within minutes. Or a slice along the belly, deep enough, will spill the innards."

"CLEGANEBOWL!"

The skull was strong, said Oberyn over a multitude of wails when he crouched too close to the Mountain's face, and thus no good for killing unless you should be quick and strong enough to stab through bone. The brain was better attacked through the eyes, and even if you didn't go deep enough to kill – as Oberyn knew first-hand – that alone was incapacitating. The heart and the bleedy areas surrounding it were hard to get through the ribs, and the throat – the nice, soft throat – required agility and precision to harpoon. The eyes, sinuses, and temples were perfect for making quick ends of your opponents, as was anywhere deep enough in the abdomen that punctured arteries. If the person you wanted to kill was pregnant, you could be GRRMly evil and stab them in the baby, which would be deliciously bloody. Besides, without modern surgery and a maester who was sane, anything could be deadly in terms of infections, but those were the quickest, cruellest, and most painful ways to slay someone with a spear without the use of poisons. With poisons or enough strength to twist a spearhead in a wound, thus mangling an opponent's organs, you could make very quick work of someone.

"Now," Oberyn grinned, "how shall we proceed? Perhaps Cleganebowl, a new trial by combat?"

* * *

"HAPPY HUNGER GAMES! MAY THE GODS NEVER BE IN YOUR FAVOUR!"

Saskia startled. Ramsay Snow, indeed, stood on a balcony above the entrance to the gallery and screechily began to play 'God Save the Queen' on that goddamned vuvuzela. As the irritating chorus of _PTTPRTTR PRTTTPTPP PPTTRRRTT PPPPPPPPRRRTTTPPPPTTTTPPPPRRRTTR PPTTT PTTPTRRR!_ echoed off the stone walls and sent half her peers screaming and hiding behind each other, targets, Jaime's legs, and every last bit of furniture available, Saskia too dodged out of the way, throwing herself behind Letty and shrieking whilst Letty tried to clamber around _her_. The only ones seemingly unaffected were Ilyn and Olly, clapping at Ramsay's disturbance of the fanbrats, the former clacking and the latter wearing an evil, shit-eating smirk.

Ygritte, though, looked quite peeved, and stood glaring at Ramsay from below. "We agreed ya could give a lecture on crossbows next month, Ramsay, not sneak in an' tell 'em t' kill each other! Get out!"

Ramsay blew a piercing, kind of farty-sounding note and cackled. "Can I flay the ones that don't behave? I hear Hockins and Robinson and Crockett are already little horrors. Allow me take them off your hands and the skin off them before they cause you any grief. I'll even pop on over to Bronn's and flay Dwyer free of charge."

Ramsay wanted to _flay_ her, Saskia thought, shaking so tremendously she'd dropped her bow and had stood for gods knew how many seconds without being armed in the presence of craziness. He'd wanted to _flay_ her—not that he wouldn't jump at the chance to do that to anyone else. And Orla. She could see, though, why someone would want to flay Orla. Ramsay knew. Ramsay knew, or at least he'd heard, if he named her as being awful in particular, and… she was screwed, most like. Massively screwed, and not in the good way by Robb and his pendulous meat snake.

"Flay Olly!" yelled one of the rare neckbeards, who was promptly met with a Tearful Olly Death Glare™ and likely a place on his mental hit list. "Kill the boy if Jon won't!"

"They're all behavin'! Even Archibald!" Which was shockingly true, Saskia noted, because she'd not seen the Cryptkeeper with his hands down his trousers or heard him making inappropriate comments or screaming irrelevant bullshit about Stannis in, like, a whole hour, which was likely some kind of record. "Get out, Ramsay!"

"Pretty, pretty please with a cherry on top? _Please_ , Ygritte? See, I asked nicely."

"Ask me one more time an' tha' vuvuzela's goin' where light don' shine!"

"Please? No?! Well, now you're just _begging_ for midnight Yakety Sax for the next five years."

And Ramsay was just begging for Ygritte to fire a warning shot at him—cursing a plenitude of hells and then _PPPTTTRRRPPTTT_ ing on his hot pink instrumental wonder, he bowed and fled.

"Nooooooo, take me with you! _Take_ me! Serenade me with Yakety Sax!" cried Flannery, so gutted and randy she'd slumped down over a table, frothing slightly at the mouth as she twitched and raised her clothed backside to a by now gone Ramsay. "Know me! Biblically! Biblically!"

"Come back and flay Olly!"

As soon as the bow was in Saskia's hands again, she relaxed as well as a person could relax after being threatened by Ramsay Snow. That is to say, not all that much.

_But this isn't actually that bad now that I can defend myself_ , she reminded herself, the tension leaving her hunched shoulders somewhat, _you know, other than my arms and back and hands and everywhere about to burn miserably, and a persistent fear of bodily harm nagging at me. It's like PE but with no running, and taught by a fictional character way too keen on teasing us instead of an overeager butch lesbian with a metaphorical hard-on for netball. And I loathe netball._ Perhaps just thinking this carried a huge chance of jinxing it, but Saskia could see herself liking this in future. Kind of, except for the teasing bit and the fact that she very well could be dead in a matter of minutes. Then again, she hadn't even attempted to shoot anything yet, and it wouldn't much surprise her if the first thing she ever shot was herself, and if she died… well, she'd never have to face Robb and Tywin and shame and embarrassment again, would she?

And she very well could die, because hell broke loose as soon as Ygritte gave the orders to fire—not at each other, because it wasn't _really_ the Hunger Games. Arrows sped this way and that through the enormous room, many of them Saskia's, who spectacularly missed anywhere near the actual targets, hitting instead the floor. (Lyalyah would've done much better, and Robb would've loved her for it.) Ygritte darted about, half in vain attempting to correct those who drew the string to their tits, aimed at the cathedralesque ceiling to hit a target five metres away, or proclaimed 'I'm Katniss, bitch!' as they accidentally and non-fatally shot their classmates in the extremities. Jaime seemed to have got his corpse-, injured-, and hiding-people removal down to a science, and wove in and out of the mostly incompetent throng, here and there dragging pupils off to a pile in a conspicuously stained corner of the room with his one remaining hand… though mostly, thankfully, most of the classmates she'd seen had just been scratched and not horrifically killed.

Saskia flinched and yelped as an arrow flew near her, landing not too far from her feet. It'd come from the right somewhere, and she glanced over, intent on screaming at whoever was careless enough to fire in the wrong direction. And it seemed to have come from Brunette Sophie, brandishing her bow and aiming it at the other Sophie. The Sophies, just ten spots down the line of archers, were engaged in a screechy bitch fit over gods knew what – it was much too loud and high-pitched to tell – and soon took to hair-pulling… until the brunette one (Wells?) made to shoot the ginger one (Jones?), who responded by shooting _her_ clear through the neck and aiming an arrow at Jaime, trying to intervene. And then there was the pungent smell of fire and burning cloth and …pork?. And then the sounds of screams of fangirls and… dragons. Gods, the dragons.

Screaming, Saskia dived under a large desk where Letty, smelling strongly of piss, was already half-curled as Olly kicked her in the shins. Flannery, too, fell, landing with a heavy thump next to Saskia.

"Not enough space, Flannery! Get your own desk!"

Flannery said nothing.

"F-F-Flannery? You shot? Flannery?" Saskia whispered, poking her squirrelly cheek with a trembling finger.

Flannery was stone dead, red-eyed and frothy, and Jaime quickly dragged her and an injured neckbeard off to the body pile before Olly could have the chance to accidentally or not-so-accidentally desecrate her remains. He did, though, have the chance to kick Saskia once in the shin as she lay cowering in fear from a PE lesson (admittedly, a PE lesson from all seven hells) and of an eleven-year-old that, less than half a day previous, she'd seen gallivanting about in a pile of cats with Tommen.

_But I'm alive_ , she breathed minutes later when the hellish lesson ended Jaime dragged her and Letty out from under the desk by their ankles- _trembling, wet, and sore, but alive._

* * *

Over in the staff quarters in Kingspyre Tower, Tywin was adamantly Not Amused™ about the brutal demise of the elder and murderier Clegane. He was sat at his massive mahogany desk, ignoring a nice roast pork luncheon as Oberyn lounged in the chair before him, clearly and sardonically unfazed by the entire situation.

"You stole the body of Gregor Clegane from Qyburn. How, I do not know. You and the Hound then _murdered_ Gregor Clegane in front of _children_ ," Tywin fumed in the quiet, seething way of Tywin Lannister, green eyes cold and calculating.

"Seventeen-year-old children at the youngest. Old enough to be watching _Game of Thrones_."

"All the same, Prince Oberyn, in front of children."

"Since when does Tywin Lannister care about the welfare of children? The last I checked, he liked giving orders to smash their heads in."

Tywin's cold expression changed not one bit.

"Of course you say nothing," Oberyn said with a bitter laugh. "You will never give me that kind of satisfaction."

"No, I will not."

"You know, Lord Tywin, it's not murder if it's a trial by combat. You know that. Even the pupils know that. Even so, what good was the Mountain to you in such a state? Did we ruin the fun of Cleganebowl?"

"That was no trial by combat. A trial by combat does not permit two champions to attack _one_."

"Sandor was my champion. I only… gave some post-death blows. My pupils will confirm this. Well, most of them. Forshaw poisoned himself and Hothersall passed out."

"You moved his lips, I'm told."

"The Mountain requested a trial by combat, with his own lips, in his own voice, and named himself as champion."

"Because you moved his lips after you charged him with being a cunt while he was incapacitated. He was capable only of grunting and twitching involuntarily, which you translated as consent to a trial by combat and naming himself as his own champion." With that, Tywin rose and reached for some parchment, his eyes never leaving Oberyn. "I can and should fire you, Prince Oberyn."

"That you should not do. That you cannot do," Oberyn said sexily and cockily beneath Tywin's icy glare. "I am the only spearmaster at the Official Fanfiction University of Westeros. Don't you wish you weren't a stingy bastard and had hired more than one spearmaster? There would be more of us to sack."

"We will get Obara. And as soon as we do, if her teaching satisfies—"

Oberyn chuckled. "You don't want Obara. Not after what the show's done to her. You must know, Lord Tywin, that my daughters thirst to avenge my death—Obara in particular. The girl is obsessed. You may find another vicious Dornish nuisance on your hands, not another member of staff on your payroll."

"I will send a raven to Sunspear," said Tywin, beginning to write, "at once."

"Be careful what you ask for. You may never get it. Or you may get it used. Damaged. Ruined. No good."

"We will see about that in a few days. The girl served her purpose in series five. Why would she not do the same with us?"

"Did she? Well, Lord Tywin, we shall see," grinned the factious viper. "We shall see."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *How to realistically murder your characters with sharp things:  
> writeworld/org/post/39568468890 slash a-summary-of-how-people-die-and-dont-in
> 
> *Ten hours of vuvuzela noise, just because I love you:  
> youtube.com/watch?v=-E6ljLSOkbY
> 
> *Oberyn vs the Mountain, denial version, because OBERYN NOOO:  
> youtube.com/watch?v=r8oOi6JOXEQ
> 
> I hope that Oberyn and Ygritte were snarky enough, and that Ramsay was vuvuzela-y enough, and that you're not going to kill me for having taken far too long to update. This is absolute shite, but I had to. Also, I've a new wee one shot coming out soon, if you're into Stark feels and fancy prose and not-crack (imagine…). I'm massively drunk at the moment, so if you see any typos... je suis désolée, et s'il vous plaît corrigez mes fautes de frappe, merci x


	11. And Now Their Lives Are Ended

As soon as she was free from the horrible horror that was her archery lesson, which she never wanted to experience again (but would have to on Friday afternoon because life was pain and OFUW was torture), Saskia rushed back to the Wailing Tower. She threw herself on her bed, shaking with the remnants of fear, not even minding that she smelt of her own piss and hadn’t yet been arsed to change her smallclothes. Now that she was decidedly not dead and she hadn’t Domestic Arts (or, rather, _Lamely Attempting to Stitch Things Whilst Having a Silent Emo Fit about Jeyne and Robb and Neddy_ ) later, the rest of today was going to be excellent. She was alive and unflayed and unshot, she was far away from Ramsay Snow, renewed life flowed through her tired limbs, and… yes, the remainder of the day was going to be excellent.

Or not.                                                                                                                                                                                         

The too-familiar Wednesday morning scent of alcohol-y bile engulfed her tiny bedroom. Now it was her turn to care for Lucy, projectile vomiting out the window as Saskia rubbed her back and she breathed deeply and wheezily like a llama with COPD. Ever-chatty Lucy, between heaves and coughs, could not stop chunnering something about blood and arteries and Vegetative Cleganebowl and Oberyn touching her and spears and something about gripping cocks and would Jon touch her if she were this ill cos, like, she’d wrote an ‘imagine’ on Tumblr about him tending to you when you’d got the stomach flu and rubbing your back and fetching you tea and could Saskia get Jon or Oberyn to fetch her some tea and then a whole litre of mouthwash so she could snog them both for days to forget the gore and stench of Cleganebowl?

“Uh, no? What were you drinking, anyway?”

“Dunno. Mead, s’posed’ly. Saw some Thenns drinkin’ from flasks when I went down the kitchens to steal me an half dozen teacakes… and… I stole one of those, too.” She jabbed a thumb back at the empty flask on their bed.

Saskia laughed. “Why were you stealing food after breakfast?”

“Dragons,” Lucy breathed roughly, combing back her mess of light brown hair with a shaking hand, “they’re like ducks an’ shit, supposin’. Everywhere. Annoyin’ wee fucks after your food. I wanted to feed ‘em down by the lamprey pool.”

“Dragons don’t eat _rolls_ , Lucy. They eat bacon and goats.”

…And people. Saskia was rather sure they ate people, too, or would’ve eaten the Sophies had Jaime not scared them away with his anachronistic fly swatter. And they would’ve eaten her, too, had she died. But she wasn’t dead, wasn’t going to die…

Well, she wasn’t going to die of the Hunger Games, murderous staff, murderous vuvuzela players, Westerosi Hitler, the ding-ding shame lady’s annoying and nearly head-exploding _ding-ding-_ ing, falling from a tower, or shame, at least.

But she _could_ be murdered-- because, as Saskia realised many sick-filled and miserable hours later, they were both late for that writing workshop thing, and who knew who taught that and how they punished tardiness? Trembling terribly and rousing a still-sniffling-and-rambling Lucy from her puke post at the window, they darted down the millions of flights of stairs, across the courtyard, and way up into the third floor of the Widow’s Tower, and tumbled into a cramped, windowless, and stone-walled classroom, panting. Saskia threw herself into an empty seat next to Letty.

A woman – well, a girl, seemingly – about Miss Ellie’s age and just as tiny, though brunette, a tad taller, and much less bitch-faced, despite the disapproving furrow to her pale brow, stood glaring at her and Lucy.

_Oops?_

“As we were discussing before Miss Crockett and Miss Hothersall interrupted and lost House Hawick five points apiece,” she said, causing a group of Hawick students near the front to groan and glare at them as well, “you must write a fanfiction.”

“That’s Miss Oloi, our writing workshop tutor. We’ve got to write a fic or series of one-shots in order to get our fanfiction licences,” Letty whispered to Saskia with a pout and a huff, “and they’ve got to be un-Sueish and sane and make sense.”

_I’ve got the ‘sane’ bit covered really well. Letty hasn’t, and neither has Esther or Evie or Lucy or Amy or Hannah or the Cryptkeeper or Gavin or Orla or Flannery, gods rest her Ramsay-obsessed, perverted soul. That’s a start?_

“Oh, come on, that’s easy,” Grace laughed. “We’ve all done that, or we’re doing it.”

“…A fanfiction that satisfies the in-depth requirements we’ll give you at a later date, and is approved by a panel of staff including me, Miss Ellie, Lord Tywin, and a majority of your regular teachers.”

“…Oh.”

Saskia’s heart sank; her head spun. There was no way that anyone would approve of Robb/Lyalyah or Robb/her, especially if even Tyrion went out of his way to make cruel remarks about her masterpiece, because hadn’t that been the fic that’d got her sent here in the first place? And it didn’t seem like this Miss Oloi person would be all that approving of Sues like Lyalyah, anyway.

“Even Davos? Nigga can’t read!” cried a brown-haired, scraggly-looking fanboy in the front.

“That’s racist!” Hannah hissed. “You can’t claim that term if you’re not black!”

“I’m sure Davos reads better than you do, Morgan Smith,” Miss Oloi said, in that rather stern, sweet-sounding southern American accent that Saskia couldn’t further place, “if you think there’s textual evidence of Tyrion being a time-travelling foetus.”

“Tyrion’s Rhaego! It’s fact! It’s blood magic!”

Just as soon as Saskia thought that yes, today everyone was finally normal and sane and would appear just as so as they would in England or wherever else they lived when they weren’t in Westeros, everyone took the opportunity to spout their personal brands of theoretical bullshit almost all at once.

“CLEGANEBOWL! REAL! IT HAPPENED THIS MORNING!!!!!!!”

“Maester Aemon bumped uglies with the Queen of Thorns!”

 _I’m glad I’m not that idiotic. R + L = J_ _has got to be_ _true, but that’s a normal theory to believe. Maester Aemon and the Queen of Thorns aren’t anywhere near the same age._

“WE NEED A NEW BOOK, GEORGE, FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST!” someone screamed.

“Bran is actually Bran the Builder!”

Amy let out an awful screech. “Hodor is Willas Tyrell!”

“NED WARGED INTO ICE AND PIGEONS!” Esther shrieked, banging a fist on her desk in overzealous, batshit passion. “BARRISTAN’S OBI-WAN IN AN ALTERNATE DIMENSION AND VAL’S AN OTHER! AERON WAS RAPED BY A DOOR!”

Silence. Absolute, uncomfortable silence—until, not a nanosecond later-- 

“WHAT?!” half the class cried.

“ _What_? The Damphair ‘ears the creaking ‘inges and gets upset! ‘E’s got PTSD!”

Who the fuck were Val and Aeron (the Damphair?) and Willas Tyrell and Bran the Builder, anyways?

“It’s tinfoilish, unscientific stupidity, that’s what it is, and Lord Tywin—” Miss Oloi’s voice trembled very slightly at the mention, though not seemingly from fear, “won’t like it at all.”

There was loads more that was ‘tinfoilish, unscientific stupidity’, as Miss Oloi liked to put it. Hodor’s supposed true name – in the show, at least – was spelt W-Y-L-I-S, not W-I-L-L-A-S, and no, he had not lost his ability to speak because Oberyn beat and bumfucked him into paralysis or prolonged unconsciousness. Neither had Wun Wun or Treebeard, for that matter, because no, Hodor was not taking it up the arse from giants or Ents, and it’d take quite some force and mental trauma to _ruin_ Hodor in that way. ‘Hold the door’ was essentially canon. And, speaking of doors, doors were not sentient, and therefore as unwargable as Valyrian swords and pigeons, and therefore unable to rape people. Maybe there’d been something going on with Euron entering Aeron’s bedroom as a child, as one could infer, but…

“Yeah, but what if the door jammed its knob up ‘is arse as ‘e slept?!” Esther protested. “Hodor was ‘olding it, and then it got ‘im, too?”

Miss Oloi arched an eyebrow. “And unhinged itself to do that?”

“Yeah? Maybe it’s a sentient door? Or Moqorro or Euron’s warging it?”

“For the last time, Miss Whenlock, _no_.”

As Miss Oloi went on to explain once Esther and Morgan had finally ceased to spew theories that made no sense to anyone but themselves and other deranged book readers (Saskia reckoned all the waiting they were doing for _The Winds of Winter_ had the tendency to do that to a crazed fanbrat’s psyche), they all had to write fanfictions, and although OCs were permitted, minor canonical characters were much preferred… and decent, non-Sueish, canon-based, realistic writing was expected.

Pouting like a miserable little bitch, Saskia sank into her cold wooden seat and shot a pitiful glance at Lucy, now hunched over her desk and moaning softly. What would either of them write? Scratch that. What _could_ she write? Even now, about a quarter of the way through the first book in a massive series, there were more characters major and minor than Saskia could possibly name off the top of her head. There was Robb, darling Robb, and Catelyn and Sansa and Talisa-Jeyne and the rest of the Starks. And she now knew who were the Karstarks and Rodrik Cassell and Rhaegar and Lyanna, at that, so she supposed she was making progress. Nonetheless, what would be the point of or fun with writing a fic about Robb that didn’t involve _her_ , Robb without any clothes on, drama, Roose Bolton dying horribly, and gratuitous, poorly-written, florid smut that would make Ernest Hemingway shoot himself in the face from the sheer horror of it?

It was sorted, then. She was going to ignore the assignment – including thinking about it or reading the handout – for as long as possible. She envied Lucy, in no state to think of it at all.

“I’ll take the Crockett girl now, Miss Oloi, if you don’t mind,” came a voice from somewhere behind her.

Saskia spun around, her already weebly head wobbling from the quickness of the motion. There Jaime stood in the threshold, looking mighty blond and attractive and Prince Charming from Shrek-y in his blood-stained white cloak as, for the millionth time that day, he was staring right at her, beckoning with his golden hand.

She had had enough of Jaime fookin’ Lannister for a day— for a year, more like, or for eternity.

“Take me?”

Jaime grinned. “No need to be frightened, Miss Crockett. I’ll return you in one piece.”

“Best not return that little shit at all. Shits belong in the dirt,” the Hound grunted, poking his head in the room. “Salad Postlethwaite, with me, now. Regardin’ Flannery. Not killin’ you, either, but can’t say I’m not tempted.”

Sandor didn’t even wait for Letty to rise and leave the classroom as Saskia had with Jaime, and sauntered over to her desk, grabbing her by the arm and marching her away.

“I’m not – ow! -- called Salad! Let me go!”

“Lettice’s close enough. Who the cuntin’ fuck calls their daughter after produce?”

“It’s L-E-T-T-I-C-E! With an I! Ow!”

“Loads of lettuce with a U in my garden out back. Might be I’ll plant a Lettice with an I if it don’t listen any!”

“What’re you going to do to me?” Saskia whispered to Jaime once he’d led her gently outside the classroom. He was gesturing rather severely to a cupboard as if to usher her inside.

“ _Do_ to you, Miss Crockett? Nothing but question you.”

“Right here? Now? In… in a cupboard?”

“Precisely.”

“It’s not as if I’m putting you on trial before my father or the Faith. Just an inquest in the case of a Sophie Melissa Jones of Auckland, New Zealand— deceased this morning, as you witnessed. A fortunate but annoying matter of Official Fanfiction University of Westeros policy when someone dies.”

“You were there, so…. isn’t this, like, a… conflict of interest or something?”

“And who else would you or my lord father prefer to have do this?”

…Someone who didn’t want to drag her off to dark and spidery cupboards, for sure. All the same, she let Jaime lead her inside, sat down on a rickety stool by the light of a tiny glassless window at the back of the cupboard, hunched over in defence.

“Truly, I am not going to kill you. I am not Ramsay Snow.” Well, that was mildly reassuring. “In your own words, and honestly, what happened in Archery today?”

“You were there.” _He was there for more than just Sophie’s toasting. He’s the one who saw me. He’s the one who made me fall._

“Yes,” Jaime said, the shadows of his green eyes boring into hers, “but humour me for the sake of procedure. In your own words, what happened in Archery today?”

“Dragons and pain and Ramsay had a vuvuzela and Olly is Hitler and I think they want to kill us?” she ventured, fidgeting, the memories of that morning’s burning and death and horribleness flashing through her mind. “And Letty weed herself. So did I. And Ygritte teased me and made bad oral sex jokes and everyone kept screaming cos she said we can’t be Mary Sues or ship Jon with Arya and Postman Pat. She probably gets off on it. The teasing. Not Postman Pat with his penile head up Jon’s arse. Colin wrote that. Pat uses his nose as… as...”

All in all, Saskia reckoned as she droned off, her stomach gurgling uncomfortably, today was a perfectly ordinary day at the Official Fanfiction University of Westeros, judging by the almost non-reactions of the staff to death, mass injury, mass incompetence, murderous loonies with vuvuzelas, and batshit ships involving stop-motion animated children’s characters and the former and sexiest Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch… and she would have to survive through May.

“ _Regarding Sophie Jones_.”

“She… you were there. She meant to shoot you and died of toasty.”

“Right. Good enough. Sign here,” said Jaime at once, shoving one of his papers and a quill into her hands.

In the silence, under Jaime’s careful stare, the question that had been bubbling at the back of her mind all morning finally came forth.

“Ser Jaime? What happened to Sophie?” she blurted. “I mean… what… what happens when I – you – die?”

“A question for septons, maesters, Red Priests, philosophers, and Jon Snow.”

“I mean here. Do we die? In our world? Is Sophie really dead?”

“No. Sophie’s fine, and she’s wherever she was when Oberyn and Ser Ilyn wrangled her. She has no memory of what’s transpired here. No time’s passed, and she’ll think she’s just come round after blanking out for a few seconds. The body that dies in Westeros is an incarnation of her _Game of Thrones_ fanfic-writing soul, and that does burn or decay here. As for her fanfiction, It’ll sit abandoned, and she’ll lose all inspiration to write it. Writer’s block that never ends, so to speak. If she tried, she wouldn’t be able to write any more of it. That isn’t to say she can’t move on to other fandoms, but there are other universities for those if her writing there is awful enough.”

Saskia’s heart sank even deeper. So her shamefully nerdy favourite coping mechanism would be denied her permanently if she croaked, and she would have no memories of the in-person, glorious sexiness of Robb Stark, who did not look like Richard Madden, but was just as fit and gorgeous and Robb-y. And Robb was, in truth, her main motivation for coming here. Wonderful.

“Is there anything else you need to tell me that is relevant to this case?”

“Is… is there anything I… _should_ tell you?” Saskia sputtered. Her own wee climbing endeavour wasn’t quite relevant, was it?

“You tell me.”

“…No?”

“Very well. Then it’s back to Miss Oloi now, Miss Crockett. We cannot have you missing _‘Gay’ Is Not a Homosexual Character’s Only Trait_ and _Commas, Motherfucker: Use Them._ Though,” Jaime said carefully, in a way that sounded almost _too_ kind, “I don’t think you’ll be needing those.”

 _Because I don’t make Robb uncanonically flamboyant with Theon and I have basic writing skills, or because I’m going to die?_ she wanted so desperately to ask.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The afternoon and evening, too, were alive with the sounds of falling bodies. By the time supper or tea or dinner or whatever you wanted to call it rolled around, Jaime had collected a nice wee pile of them.

Of course, no one was _really_ upset about that except Tywin, the dead ones’ friends, and Brienne, who, as a new teacher at the Official Fanfiction University of Westeros, looked just a wee bit sickened at the small mountain of arrow-ridden corpses just stacked at the end of the aisle in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, and more upset than pretty much all of the staff at the absolute waste of human life. Oberyn, also a first-year teacher, did not seem at all phased, and sat lounging at the far end of the staff table, being sexily fed olives by Ellaria as several fanboys who were Gay for Oberyn moaned into their untouched suppers (whoever thought that serving food and hosting funerals at the same time was a good idea should’ve been sacked).

Olly and Ramsay, though, seemed the only ones pleased about the deaths. The former was adorable dressed in his funereal best, a black jerkin and a mini Night’s Watch cloak, and stood sneering at the corpse pile from a short distance away, his lips twitching, his Satanic eyes glistening with tears one couldn’t tell were from anger or glee, until Uncle Robb intervened.

“You’re not going anywhere near Jon or burials tonight, lad, until you stop looking stabby,” Robb growled, grabbing the wee terror by the scruff of his neck and dragging him off to Sandor, kicking and howling the whole way.

“But I wanna watch Jaime burn the fat one! I wanna watch Jaime burn the fat one!”

“Are… are all those from archery?” Brienne asked Bronn, sauntering up with an enormous mug of ale. She nodded to the corpse pile before them.

“Aye. You should’ve been here when Anguy was. It used to be worse.”

Brienne shot him a look as if to ask how anything could possibly be worse than mass student death.

Bronn just laughed. “You _really_ should’ve met Anguy. You see, the more students who met their ends in his lessons, the less money would be spent on their equipment and upkeep, and the more money he could swindle from the Lannisters and give to the Brotherhood, or spend on wine and whores. Big Bertha cost him a fortune.”

“Is Bronn horrifying your sense of honour?”

She spun on her heels, flinching. _Just Jaime. Looking rather concerned, at that._

Brienne shook her head. “I want to give them proper burials, Jaime.” After all, rabid fans or no, they were human. Some children, even. And none deserved at all further shame or mutilation in death. And the little dragons were keen on the mutilation bit, stalking the bodies as Daenerys threw peaches at them. Hissing just as much as the Stannis fanboys at the sudden appearance of airborne peaches, some of the dragons took off, swooping under the staff table and continuing to hiss as they eyed the corpse pile.

“No need, wench. We’re not so uncivilised as to feed them to dragons or leave them there to rot.” As Jaime explained, there was a section on the enrolment form for the ‘darlings’ to note how they’d like to be sent off, and Corpse Control did the best they could to comply with those wishes… though it wasn’t always possible unless that wish were a standard ground burial, cremation, or Tibetan sky burial with dragons. “Some self-important brats want enormous memorials built to them. Think we can afford it after Joffrey’s? Who are they to us? We just build cairns in the woods for those ones, and they’re lucky if Sandor doesn’t ever shit on them.”

“He… defecates on graves?”

“Urinates, mostly,” Bronn said nonchalantly, sipping his ale. “The man’s got to piss when he’s working in the godswood.”

Brienne stared at Jaime and Bronn, her jaw set, looking slightly offended. That was no way, after all, to treat the dead, even if the aforementioned dead were fanbrats. She looked to Sandor, now barking something _cunt_ -filled to a group of perverted admirers in vain trying to caress his burnt face as he prowled between the house tables for leftover chicken, and resorting to punting Evie Hawkins and Maeve Wright into the nearest unlit hearth as Olly cheered. It would not be beyond him at all.

“If it’s any consolation, Brienne, we employ Tommen, Rickon, Shireen, Lady Lyanna, and the little Sand Snakes to draw depictions of the tombs they want so much. Sometimes they make it onto the cairns.”

“I’ll be giving Ethan a Tully-style funeral at dusk, since he fancied Edmure and the Blackfish so much,” Bronn grinned to Brienne. “Too bad we’ve only got planks for a boat, I’m not a good archer, and the nearest water deep enough to float anything’s a pool of lampreys.”

“That’s… not… and there’s the Gods Eye… and the stream in the godswood…”

“Remember what I said, wench. Don’t pity them. Half of them bring it upon themselves, and we do what we can besides.”

“No pity. They’ve no pity for you. And they’ll be trying to get at _you_ ,” Bronn added, “if they already haven’t, for having Jaime, and the same goes for him.”

Some of them already had, Brienne thought with a sickened grimace. Gavin Underwood had thrown himself at her yesterday after proclaiming revenge on Jaime (prompting an attack from Joffray, the most unstable of the mini dragons), and James Parry had composed a three-page, semi-pornographic ode to her nose and felt somehow compelled to gift it to her. A certain subset of the female Jaime fanciers seemed to resent her, though one particular child, blond as a Lannister, alternated between lust for Jaime and intense outbursts that Jaime/Brienne wasn’t wholly canon, but needed to be immediately. Even Tormund, not even a pupil, had approached her before her and Davos’s lesson that afternoon to waggle his eyebrows at her and insinuate that he’d fooked a beah, but never a maiden fair…

“But Jaime and I… we’re not…” _Not betrothed, at least._

“Doesn’t matter. You’re close enough to it, aren’t you? Or you are already.”

 _Are already,_ Jaime mouthed to Bronn.

“Doesn’t matter if you are or you aren’t. They don’t care. The lot of ‘em want to fuck him, and the lot of the fat beardy ones want to fuck you. And they’ll end up the same.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

As the long and bloody day drew at last to an end, so did Saskia’s last shred of her sense of peace and several other unfortunate lives.

Damien Forshaw had, indeed, survived his little mishap with one of Oberyn’s non-fleshy spears, and returned from Qyburn unharmed— with the notable exception of mini courgettes growing all over his legs like cysts. One of the Blackwood girls who learnt the sword came back from the fabled evil hospital lair with a real live gecko grafted over a puncture wound on her shoulder. Ilze had got scratched when an arrow grazed her thigh; she spent the evening curled in a chair in the study room, praying to the old gods and the new that the wound wouldn’t fester. (If you’d got a superficial wound, you had the choice of either going to Qyburn or letting Jeyne wash it out with boiled water and put a Dora the Explorer plaster on it, however those existed in Westeros, and you were an absolute idiot who deserved it if you chose the former. Ilze, though, was not an absolute idiot.)

Lilanie was still alive, too, despite having been shot in the arm that afternoon. Saskia knew that an arrow to the upper arm would likely not be fatal, not from that distance and at that weak a draw (she had learnt something about archery after all), but it was still shocking that Lilanie was alive, given who the university’s maester was. There wasn’t anything wrong with Lilanie, thankfully, aside from the random hiccoughing fits that had plagued her several times since, the fact that her arm was in a sling, and her unusual sulky attitude—so sulky that she shot Saskia a dark, vicious glare from across the supper table.

“I just asked if you could pass the turnips?”

Lilanie’s dark glare only intensified. “I don’t see why _you_ get to be so lucky. I mean, just because you’re their favourite doesn’t mean you should get away with it.”

Her mouth gaped just a bit. “I’m their _favourite_?”

Saskia was certainly not anyone’s favourite (if anyone was, Jay and Edrick seemed to be very much in Tyrion and Daenerys’s good graces, and Catelyn and Sansa appeared pleased with Grace Keely, the only young lady who apparently liked ‘real’ needlework). On Monday, Saskia had annoyed Sansa, Catelyn, Jeyne, and some dragons. On Tuesday, her mere existence seemed to have bothered Stannis the Mannis, and she was rather certain that Robb didn’t think too highly of her, either, especially now that he likely knew she was a pervy stalker. In the last twenty-four hours, she’d annoyed Tywin, Sandor, Miss Ellie, the ding-ding shame lady, more dragons, Jaime (and probably Brienne by proxy), Miss Oloi, Ramsay, Olly, and Ygritte (and thus maybe Jon, who would have likely told Robb, who was probably already annoyed by her from Military Realism, bloody fuckin’ horrid seven hells). If she was anyone’s favourite, she was well on her way towards being their favourite to torture and tease and laugh at, because clearly the year was off to a marvellous start.

“Seriously, Lilanie, I’m their _favourite_?”

But Lilanie didn’t answer, only snatched her plate with her good hand and stormed off to the emptier end of the table.

“What’s with her?”

“I mean, I think she just told you, Saskia,” Letty said blankly. “She’s been to Qyburn. And she kind of has a point. You _are_ lucky.”

 _Too lucky, perhaps…_ but then so was Lilanie, also unkilled and unflayed. Neither of them were in the corpse pile, so as far as Saskia was concerned, they were both lucky enough—though more so were Hannah and Evie, still alive and wholly unharmed.

The aforementioned pile of stiffened corpses lay upon a bier at the end of the aisle leading up towards the high table, just dragged in by Hodor a few minutes prior. The dead had begun to look… well, stiff and dead, some contorted into odd positions of defence in which they’d snuffed it, and Tyrion and Daenerys were having one hell of a hard time scaring away the winged, flesh-hungry, fire-breathing beasties by shaking a big stick and throwing fruit at them, respectively, and many students were having one hell of a hard time not crying or puking at the gory, Game of Thrones-y spectacle before them. Not even the promise of streaky bacon dangled enticingly from the table, as Sansa was finding out, could stop the mini dragons from stalking the corpses, to what looked like Ramsay’s demented, creepy-eyed delight. And nothing, as Saskia had been finding out all week, could ever get Orla to stop staring at Jaime and Brienne, or Lilanie to not sulk, or get Lucy to be quiet.

“So fatherly. So fit. So carin’. He’d love me more for bein’ so ill,” Lucy sighed to Orla, too intent on ogling Jaime to notice she was being talked to, biting her lip as she watched Jon, at the staff table, sternly watch Olly dole out a fucktonne of Tearful Olly Death Glares™ at a rowdy pack of Mannimals staring creepily at their god, sat grinding his teeth in the corner. “He’d rub my back. Hold my hair. Make me toast and tea. Love me. Love me some more. I were writin’ it on Tumblr when Ilyn wrangled me…”

Well, nothing could ever get Lucy to be quiet save Tywin Lannister, calling an announcement.

“We have come to honour the lives of the unfortunate fallen. Please join us in bidding farewell to Paola García Vargas, Sophie Wells, Flannery Marchant, Ethan Novak, Sophie Jones, Adam Tobin, and Keisha-Jane Cole. Samwell Tarly of the Night’s Watch will lead the remembrances, courtesy of Bronn, and you are welcome to attend their disposals immediately afterwards.”

Saskia’s head threatened to explode as Ramsay screeched ‘My Heart Will Go On’ on his vuvuzela, to the horror and displeasure of pretty much everyone present. Eve wiped a tear from her eye—though Saskia couldn’t tell if it were out of grief for Flannery or admiration of and lust over Ramsay and his annoying, vuvuzela-y Ramsayness.

Sam had risen, and stood at the podium to lead what already promised to be the most irritating funeral service she’d likely ever experience.

“Flannery Marchant came to us from Lake Village, Arkansas. She loved the Lord Ramsay just a bit too devotedly, and wrote genderbent Ramsay/Reek torture porn. She was… she was,” he gulped, clutching the obituary that Bronn had passed him with trembling hands, “she was a... a rotten little minge who was so hopeless that she managed to kill herself with just a bow and not even an arrow. We will see far too many of her like again. And now her watch is ended.”

“And now her watch is ended.”

“Sophie Jones came to us from Auckland, New Zealand. She was a ginger, and… and thus there’s no point to a requiem for her soul. She was, however, a—”

Sam and Ramsay stopped as, suddenly, the earth shook. The heavens trembled. The tables wobbled and thumped on the floor, clattering and shattering goblets and plates. Baby Ned began to cry, and few fangirls were unterrified enough to notice Robb adorably soothing his son, stroking his hair and kissing his wee red cheeks (though Saskia noticed, her own cheeks stinging with a flush of what wasn’t totally quite jealousy, rage, or shame). Fifty mini dragons screeched in fear, flying as far up in the rafters as they could go, hissing and threatening to douse the hall in flames. And the beeping commenced.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Sam shouted.

Lord Manderly, too fat to sit a 500lb weight capacity mobility scooter, had arrived.

Miss Ellie grabbed Oberyn’s beloved squirty squirt from where it lay before him on the table and rushed forward to the bier, flanked by Rahloo and Missendai. She did not even have to rush, though, for it took Lord Manderly’s noble steed a good minute to bear his massive weight down the aisle. When he stopped before the dais and the bier upon it, he revved his scooter as best as he could (it was obviously overtaxed and barely functional, much less so than it had been the other day) and rasped something incomprehensible as the poor thing puttered and beeped. Globs of oniony sweat cascaded down his blobular cheeks with the effort of turning the handle.

“Lord Manderly,” Tywin warned from his seat at the high table, “you cannot have these. Make pies out of something normal for once.”

_Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep beeeeeeep sdfhsurhiuerwdfshdhfds beeeeeeeeeeeep sfyuagsruwgsdu bwwwewjsdfdeeeep fhidsuhfiudsfhidsufh beeeeep beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep ppppprpprrpprrrrrppp._

Miss Ellie held her ground, a hand clasped tightly around Oberyn’s squirty squirt. “The moment someone responds ‘baked into a pie’ on the question regarding their remains on the enrolment form, we will notify you and arrange what we can. So far, that has been absolutely no one ever. For the last time, Wyman, this is not free food. This is a pile of corpses.”

Wyman’s noble steed emitted a long, drawn-out beep that Saskia assumed to be the scootypuff translation of a very strong cuss word.

“Now, now, let’s not get upset here,” Miss Ellie soothed, looking to Tywin, who nodded. “As it turns out, you _can_ have something. Would it hurt so much to have live ones?”

 _BEEEP._ Guess that meant no.

“That settles it, Lord Manderly. Live fanbrats you shall have.” And with that, Tywin rose and Miss Ellie cracked the giddiest of grins. “Saskia Crockett, come forward.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Just a wee bit of denouement and set-up before we get into the brilliance of the lectures and the appearance of some of the guests. Someday, sometime, we will be meeting Anguy, Thoros, and Beric, but today is not that day. We will also meet Obara, Not-Burnt Shireen, Not-Butchered Ellaria, MORE OBERYN BECAUSE I AM CLEARLY STILL NOT OVER IT SINCE I READ ASOS IN 2012, Theon, Varys, Jaqen H’ghar, Melisandre, Littlefinger, Cersei, Ned, Arya, Bran, Margaery (GOODNIGHT SWEET PRINCESS), Gendry, Grenn, Pyp, the Blackfish, Renly, Loras, Jorah the Explorah, Not-Dead Barristan, some Greyjoys, and my favourite book-only character. And Jaime/Brienne… well, that should be a thing because it’s not like Orla’s list is unachievable because I too am a massive screaming fangirl, like duh.

My favourite ASOIAF theory, at least after the ‘Varys is a merling’ one, is D + D = T… aka Drogo + Daenerys = Tyrion. [Yes, really. ](https://www.reddit.com/r/asoiaf/comments/30mat2/spoilers_all_ddt_a_neverbeforeseen_theory/)TL;DR: Dany is Tyrion’s real mother because Tyrion and Rhaego are the same person through Mirri Maz Duur’s weird time-travelling surrogate foetus-swapping black magic, and Tyrion will then Oedipally fuck Daenerys and be king of Westeros. [Aeron being raped by a door](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DLzxrzFCyOs) is my own unfortunate invented theory born of too much rum, though I have seen ‘Ned warged into Ice’, ‘Ned warged into a pigeon’, and ‘Val is an Other’. I’ve always thought that Bran would be somehow all the Brandon Starks of the past, including Brandon the Builder… which doesn’t seem too insane now, eh?

 


	12. Manderly's Pies

**Manderly’s Pies**

Lord Tywin’s eyes were heavy upon Saskia as she squirmed in her seat. So were the eyes of hundreds of her classmates amidst the silence, here and there punctuated by hisses and a beep from Wyman Manderly’s noble steed.

“Oh my god, she’s toast.”

“Totally toast.”

“Maybe literally toast. He eats people!”

“Just look at that gut flab! How many of us has he eaten to get that _large_?!”

“Eh, could just be doughnuts and Mars Bars.”

“Come forward, Saskia Crockett,” said Tywin once more.

Shaking horribly, she rose, stumbling over her feet and her gown as she made her way towards Tywin. _I was right_ , she thought with a shudder _. I_ am _going to die today. Not from falling off a tower. Not from being toasted alive. Not under the soul-wilting stare of Tywin Lannister or the ding-ding shame lady. Not in the Hunger Games, not in a PE lesson from all seven hells, and not at the hands of Corpse Control afterwards. I survived all that to become a pie._

Miss Ellie, now by Tywin’s side, smiled in her Umbridgey way. “Did you think you would skirt punishment for your deplorable behaviour? Oh, sweet summer child. This is not a Mary Sue fic in which your character gets away with everything.”

“Saskia Crockett,” said Tywin, “thought it wise to sneak outside after dark and climb the tallest tower in Harrenhal in a desperate bid to enter the staff section, which, as you know, is off-limits to students without a chaperone and express permission from both myself and Miss Ellie. Miss Crockett was lucky that Daenerys was feeding the dragons precisely during those ten minutes, otherwise she would be ash and dragon droppings. She was also lucky that Sandor caught her when she fell. All the same, she will be punished. You will say farewell to her now, for the next time you see her, it is possible she will be a pie.”

Everyone was still staring at her, and from the raised dais up by the staff, they all seemed a sea of faces—faces she hadn’t even got to come to hate, or like, or get to know the fannish and likely twisted and insane souls behind. And now she was going to die. Be eaten. In a pie. She’d wake up back in Ealing with the beginnings of a hangover, with a massive essay on _Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage_ to write, and she’d never, ever, write fanfiction again. She’d not remember Westeros or Lucy or Orla or the way that Robb’s dimples were so cute when he laughed, how Robb was real and gorgeous and so military commander-y and trying so hard to act as stern as Stannis… and it would kill her. She’d never remember she’d met Robb Stark.

“Was the promise of Robb worth this? Hmm?” Miss Ellie crooned.

“No,” she choked.

And Miss Ellie shepherded her down a long corridor, down what felt like an infinity of twisty castle stairs, to an enormous door at the end of another long corridor.

“So… am I dead or what? Going to meet my executioner?”

“Did you really think that you were going to be killed or that you’d be sentenced to some form of horrendous torture?” Miss Ellie laughed, her blue-green eyes only half kind, as she pushed open the door with a grunt. “Oh, sweet summer child. We’re only allowed to kill you if you attempt to kill one of us—if the dragons don’t get you first. You didn’t know that? We _are_ allowed to punish you and take points from your House, though, and Jaqen is allowed to smack you with a stick. We decided not to sentence you outright due to the marvellous historic death rate on the first day of archery. We figured we might as well build up the psychological torture, too, although I do admit it was all a bit extreme. Well… here we are.”

_Here_ was a kitchen, a massive kitchen staffed by tall, scarred, bald men in furs. _Thenns. Who eat people._ But these Thenns were bustling about and cutting carrots, and basting turkeys, and… not eating people, not even minding that their work was interrupted. Thenns couldn’t be all that bad, right?

“So… I’m being sentenced to work in the kitchens?” Saskia breathed with half-relief.

“Indeed. You must learn the value of hard work. You will do twelve hours a week in the kitchens until the end of term. You’re allowed to come whichever twelve hours you like, barring when you’re in lessons, though do check with Lord Manderly if he’d prefer you to come at certain times. Oh. Here he comes.”

The arrival of Wyman Manderly was heralded by shakes and rattles and beeping and dust creaking out of the stones of the walls. And then the panting. Gods, the panting and wheezing. Wyman Manderly, screeching to a halt before Miss Ellie on his trusty scootypuff, came rolling in, accompanied by such awful noise and plate-clattering and smashing that it made Saskia’s head hurt a bit.

“Wyman, this is Saskia Crockett, the little climber I was telling you about. The others shall be down presently, once Tywin’s called them out.”

_Beeeeeeeeeeeeep beeep bbbbbbrbrbrrrrrrrrrpppeeeepppp brbebhfrufhdufshsfsdfbbbppppeeee!!!_ said Wyman Manderly.

Saskia stuttered. “I… I have no idea what… what you’re saying!”

“Lord Manderly says hello,” said the small brown-skinned, almond-eyed girl beside him. She was so wee and unobtrusive, and Wyman so massive and turquoise and Jabba the Hutt-esque, that Saskia hadn’t noticed her before, if she’d been there at all.

_Beeeeeeeeeeeeep beeeeeep bbbbbbrbrbrrrrrrrrrpppeeeepppp brbebhfrufhdufshsfsdfbbbppppeeee!!! Bbbbeeeeepp bbppprrrppprprrrrrrr beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!_

“His lordship is asking what you did to get yourself in trouble.”

“Oh… I, um, I tried to climb Kingspyre Tower to stare at Robb.” As ridiculous and pathetic as it sounded, she’d best be truthful about it, even to Wyman and… whoever that was.

The girl just shrugged. “One usually does, though last year one of you tried to stalk the Hound. Didn’t get any higher up than the ground.”

“Who are you?”

“This one is Missandei, Miss Crockett.”

Saskia reckoned she wasn’t going to be doing any Missandei/Grey Worm shipping now because Missandei was about thirteen, by her shitty estimation, and Grey Worm wasn’t even on staff. And among such languages from which Missandei could translate were the Common Tongue, Dothraki, High Valyrian, Old Valyrian, Naathi, Old Ghiscari, and… Mobility Scooterese.

“His lordship says there’s a Scooterese to Common Tongue translation guide in the knife drawer.”

“Is it true you’re a Faceless Man, Missandei? Faceless _Woman_?” Hannah gasped, spilling into the room with Evie at her side. She straightened, corrected herself at once. “Faceless Non-Binary Genderfluid Individual? What’re your pronouns?”

“What?”

“Your pronouns! She, her, hers? Xe, xim, xirs?!”

“This one is female, Miss Quinn, not Faceless or… genderfluid.”

“You’re black. You’re a Person of Colour.”

“Nathalie Emmanuel is black. This one is not. This one is Naathi.”

“I know it is not in your nature to be cross, Missandei,” said Miss Ellie, turning to go, “but be as cross with them as you must. Wyman and Her Grace never mind, do they?”

_BEEEEEEEEP._ That seemed to mean “no”.

“But he eats people, Miss Ellie!” Evie cried as the door slammed shut behind Miss Ellie. “He eats people!”

Lord Manderly laughed, his chuckle choked by his immense rolls of neck fat. _I’m not Shelob. I don’t eat things live. And you’re too thin for eating, besides, Miss Hawkins. But no worries. My Thenns and I will fatten you up. Hehehehehehehehehehehe._

“You’re… you’re going to kill us after, aren’t you?!”

_Don’t worry_ , Wyman beeped. _We’re forbidden to kill you unless you try to kill us. Dragons usually get you first. Anguy got a pervy Blackfish fanboy last year. Arrow through the thigh. Shame. The thigh is the best part_ , he said before he beeped something even more disturbing, looking hungrily right at Saskia. _I hear Miss Jones had a nice crisp to her. Did her skin crackle up like a pig’s?_

“I, uh… didn’t look. Sorry,” Saskia squeaked. But despite that she’d not looked, she’d heard and smelt, and from now on, she was staying away from fires and meat and dragons for time foreseeable.

Wyman shook his bulbous head and chortled, apparently at the look on Saskia’s face. _Mind that you work, now. Those carrots won’t be cutting themselves, girls. Let Baldur help you._

“You’re taking the piss. You wouldn’t really eat people.”

_Mayhaps I already have. The North remembers. Hehehehehehehehehehehehehe._

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

All in all, though, working for Wyman Manderly wasn’t too horrid, despite the whole ‘lack of pay’ thing. Sure, it was work – she’d not done any of that since her three weeks at a Starbucks a few months ago – and work of any sort to Saskia was unpleasurably dull. To her slight disappointment, there were no house elves in Wyman’s kitchen to ease the workload and be right Hogwartsy, and the company was lacking. Lilanie and Ilze had been spared the kitchen punishment by virtue of getting slightly injured and having to go to Qyburn’s evil hospital lair was punishment enough if you lived through treatment. They did seem to be shockingly okay, though, aside from the hiccoughing thing, so if there were any undisciplined victors in the whole situation, they were probably Ilze Ziguzis and Lilanie Cloete. Lilanie still wouldn’t talk to her and wasn’t even here to boot, and Hannah and Evie weren’t her type of company, but at least Wyman’s Thenns would talk in broken, harsh English as they showed her how to chop carrots and brew spiced mead.

And the Thenns, as Saskia learnt weeks before she’d learn through the books, were the most advanced of the wildling tribes, and were certainly not cannibals. They did everything they could, though, to encourage that show-only belief, going as far as to lick their lips at her and Hannah and Evie (until the biggest one, Baldur, yelled at them to quit it), and the other wildlings around seemed to love being complicit in perpetuating it. Rickon and Tommen, accompanied by Rickon’s nanny Osha, could often be seen begging the Thenns to have a bit of wine from the skulls of their victims (‘better to hold the sparkling grape than nurse the earthworm's slimy brood’, after all). The Thenns did oblige, but with those of animals, because, really, they weren’t _that_ bad, and little cat-obsessed Tommen taking after his mum and drinking watered-down wine out of a stopped-up deer skull was adorable. Tormund stopped by on Friday afternoon and offered to pay Saskia and Evie five silver stags each to slap a Thenn and let him watch. Verys and Margry were hovering nearby, however, and she had had to refuse, which was a shame, as that was quite a lot of money for her now.

And the Thenns weren’t even that bad. Sure, they were all tall, scarred, and imposing, and barely spoke the Common Tongue, but they were nice enough. For fookin’ Thenns, at least.

Wyman could take a few lessons in being nice, though.

_Is that why you sulk and whine? Because you can’t have Robb?_ he beeped as he scooted behind Saskia at the meat table. Fair enough, she had been rather sulky that afternoon, and being in the presence of Wyman and Thenns and Hannah (and, just recently in Domestic Arts, Jeyne and Neddy) didn’t help much.

“Pretty much, yeah, I reckon?”

_Well, boohoo. Life is pain and misery. We can’t always get what we want, Miss Crockett._

Wyman, despite being surrounded by twenty good Thenns, good ale, and very good food, must have found life a bit of misery as well. _It gets so lonely here,_ he murmur-beeped all of a sudden, dabbing his fat squirrelly cheeks with the mush-stained sleeve of his turquoise tunic.

“Haven’t you children to dote on?” she asked, her hands deep in a squelchy rabbit carcase, figuring she might as well try to be nice to avoid ending up as Saturday morning breakfast. She was rather sure he had, because she’d come across a fic once that paired Robb with a Manderly girl, the lucky bitch.

Wyman did have sons, but not in the Riverlands. White Harbour, wherever that was, was very far from Harrenhal. Besides, as Wyman beeped, the younger, Wendel, had been slain at the Red Wedding, and fuck Freys, fuck Boltons.

“Grandchildren?”

_Aye. Two precious granddaughters. Wylla and Wynafryd. Used to._

“Oh. I’m sorry.” Wynafryd was the one she’d seen paired with Robb. She’d not be pressing that further. Whatever had happened to Wylla and Wynafryd Manderly was likely very Game of Thrones-y and horrible.

_I ate them,_ Wyman beeped. _We were out of everything but neeps. I was hungry._

What in God’s name was she supposed to say to that? “Uh… I’m sorry to hear it. Is that the time?” she asked awkwardly. “I’ve a meeting now, if you don’t… need me anymore…”

_Jaqen H’ghar, eh? Do you think_ – Wyman panted, nigh on hacking up a lung, over the beeps of his noble scootypuff – _you could get Jaqen  to… set aside any corpses that should fall during stick-slapping time?_

“Um, no?” Robb would definitely not find her brokering a deal for corpses to bake into pies sexy or sane, not at all, and nor would Jaqen, who was sexy and available—at least, to her knowledge, more available than Robb.

_For Jon. Here,_ Wyman wheeze-beeped, pressing a shiny gold dragon into Evie’s palm as she shook potato peels from off her gown. _Tell him to kill the boy. Literally. There’s more where this comes from if he lets me stew Olly. Have him spear the lad through the face first. Hehehehehehehehehehe._

So it was that Saskia took her leave of Wyman for the weekend.

Saskia was lucky. Her Fridays, unlike some of the girls’, consisted of her easy subjects: Canon in the morning (she had a newfound, non-lustful appreciation for Tyrion and his wit), Domestic Arts after lunch, Archery after that, and her meetings with Jaqen H’ghar, also known as Sexy Jesus, at 8.00 pm. She hadn’t even known she was to have meetings with Jaqen H’ghar until she’d actually looked at that new timetable she’d got from Miss Ellie a few days ago, and it was, despite being something else to have to do once per fortnight, a damn nice addition to a week filled with embroidery, being ranted at about honour and canon, and marching around outside with Stannis Baratheon in the wee hours of the morning, in things like phalanxes and legions and other formations she’d never care about, even if Robb were telling her about them. She especially appreciated the promise of Sexy Jesus today after _The Mad King Was Mad (But Not Mad Enough to Rape Himself Deeper into Insanity with a Kielbasa, Goddamnit, Esther)_ , sewing half a sampler of rudimentary flowers whilst learning some song about Jonquil and desperately trying not to look at Jeyne and wee Neddy lest the emo tears return, _Proper Gear and Behaviour for Not Shooting Yourself (Not that Anyone Other than Tywin Particularly Minds If You Do),_ and a boring hour of rabbit-skinning with Baldur and Trygvi the Thenns _._

Saskia skipped off to Jaqen’s classroom in the lower level of the Widow’s Tower, chortling just a bit madly-happily. Fuck yeah, she was going to be an assassin! An assassin without a sword. A clumsy, wall-climbing, otherwise unathletic assassin armed with a bow, but only capable of shooting floors, finding obvious hiding spots, and pissing herself, if she were thinking at all objectively. (She wasn’t.)

As soon as she opened the creaking door to the empty room, she saw someone very smirky-eyed and brunette and attractive leering at her from beside some pool of death thing. In his right hand was a stick, and Saskia’s heart beat faster in fear. Hadn’t Miss Ellie said that Jaqen was allowed to smack them?

“I know you. You’re… Jack in a car,” she whispered. Or however anyone was supposed to pronounce that.

“A man is No One. A man once was known as Jaqen H’ghar, spelt J-A-Q-E-N H-apostrophe-G-H-A-R. If a girl had read the books, a girl might also know a man as Pate.”

She gave him a quizzical look. “How do you know I’ve not read the books?”

“A man knows many things. For one, a girl is from Warminster.”

“You could’ve got that information anywhere. Like, you know, the enrolment form I filled out.”

Jaqen just smirked. “A girl’s favourite pizza topping is tuna. A girl developed her fascination with climbing when she was forced to read _Touching the Void_. A girl’s parents met in a hostel in Freiburg. Other than Richard Madden, a girl would fuck Ryan Gosling and Norman Reedus. Her Shame Collection is in a folder called Tax Documents. A girl has always felt compelled to crawl into moving tumble dryers.”

“Who are you _really_?”

“No One. Come, girl,” he gestured towards her. “A girl will play a game of lies.”

Saskia hesitated, despite Jaqen’s rather sexy smile. He did kind of look like a sexy version of Jesus, unmanly sandals and all. And Sexy Jesus was just going to smack her with his stick, unsexily.

“A man requires a girl to come. Do not worry. A man will not sentence a girl to pies or death. A man is not Olly, and will not kick a girl in the genitals.”

“A man might hit me with a stick!” she protested.

“Indeed,” said Jaqen, rapping the stick lightly against his thigh, “a man might, if a girl lies. But a man,” he said, approaching her so he was mere centimetres from her face, “will start with an easy question. What is a girl called?”

“Lyalyah Ranford.”

“A lie. A bad lie. But a man will give a girl another chance. What is a girl called?”

“Saskia. Saskia Louise Crockett.”

“A girl tells the truth. Why is she here?”

“Because I write badfic.” No response and no stick, thank the old gods and the new. “Because I write bad fanfic about Robb Stark and a poorly-disguised and more confident version of myself getting to fuck him.”

“A sad truth. A pitiful truth. Does Robb love a girl?”

“With all his—OW!” And so Sexy Jesus’s stick stung her upper arm. “Christ! Uh.. no, no. He barely knows I exist. Sometimes he says ‘nice job’ when I’ve done my coursework, when I don’t doze off. Like, yesterday he said ‘thank you’ when I turned in my coursework.”

“Does a girl love Robb?”

“Ye—OW!” Again the stick came down upon her arm, stinging and burning. “Gods! Stop!”

“A girl is lustful.”

“I’m not lustful!”

“Sweet summer child. A girl is lustful. A girl has written, ‘ _Robb traced his war-calloused fingers down Lyalyah’s porcelain cheek, and Lyalyah felt herself, her heart, tremble with deepest love. She watched the way Robb’s perfectly toned chest rose and fell with each breath, how the azure in his eyes deepened when he whispered how much he loved her, how his body was now beginning to respond to her beauty. His member—_ ‘”

“How… how do you _know_ that?” Saskia sputtered. She’d forgot all about that passage, which did indeed go into licentious detail about a certain part of Robb Stark’s burgeoning anatomy, because why wouldn’t it?

“A man is not blind. A man has sources. And a man also reads bad fanfiction. Is not a girl RobbsPrincess on fanfiction.net?”

“I… a girl is,” she stammered, mouth still agape. She really shouldn’t have been so surprised at Sexy Jesus knowing all that, because, as it was, he knew about the tumble dryers (something she’d never voiced to anyone ever, unless she’d done so drunkenly and couldn’t remember).

“A girl will improve her lust and her lies. Now a girl must tell a man one thing she has learnt at the Official Fanfiction University of Westeros.”

What had she learnt, after all? Rhaegar and the Mad King were not one and the same, and she was pretty sure now that R + L = J was unstated truth. Then again, everyone knew that. Aeron, who was one of Theon’s crazy uncles, was not the unfortunate recipient of arserape from a door, and neither was Hodor, who hadn’t been holding off any doors _that_ way. Everyone knew that, too—well, everyone with a brain, which seemingly excluded Esther Whenlock. Benjen, as Tyrion and Sam had reiterated that morning, was only just Benjen. That was obvious enough.

So she said the only other information that came to mind. “Tommen Baratheon is an animal hoarder. He’s got an entire playroom full of cats. A girl has climbed Kingspyre Tower and seen it.”

Jaqen grinned. “Now a girl is getting somewhere. A girl will tell a man two things she has learnt in a fortnight.”

And, boy, there was plenty more to learn here.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise that Wyman will actually be relevant, and that he too will find happiness in the arms of… wait, you thought I was going to spoil that? Muahahahhaha. Let’s just say “someone not canonically near Wyman Manderly cos I’m Esther IRL”. PS: The nickname “Sexy Jesus” comes from chryswatchesgot on Tumblr, whose recaps are hilarious.
> 
> Next on, Benjen is Benjen is Benjen is really just Benjen.


	13. A Song of Benjen and Benjen

###  **A Song of Benjen and Benjen**

After Jaqen, the remainder of Saskia’s weekend went by in a flurry. She was starting to become accustomed to life in Westeros, as horrible and smelly and full of vuvuzela-armed bastards as it was, and was starting to become accustomed again to a life of lectures that, really and thankfully to Saskia, wouldn’t matter at all back in England beyond being alive and sane enough to be allowed to write fanfiction. She was even becoming accustomed to and knowledgeable about the staff here—the staff _besides_ Robb, shockingly.

Sam, for one, was a bit bumbly and awkward, but knew his Westerosi history and gave lenient marks for at least trying to learn canon and not acting so bratty. Out of all Saskia’s lecturers, Sam was by far the nicest. Tyrion, more often than not, spent half his time being amused by his students’ failures, the other half slightly miffed that they were that idiotic to begin with, and a hundred percent of the lessons at various levels of drunkenness, to everyone’s amusement (but mostly his own, and definitely not Tywin’s). Stannis and Tywin’s strategic brilliance made up for their respective lack of souls, if you cared about the strategic brilliance thing at all. Stannis might’ve ground his teeth too much, and Tywin might’ve overused the ‘creepy and penetrating stare to bend you to my authoritarian will’ thing, but aside from that, she did suppose they were both masters of… domination, as wrong as that kind of sounded. Luckily, though, because she was a girl and thus was forced to take Domestic Arts, she very rarely had to deal with Tywin like the lads did, as they had to take Political Scheming instead.

Brienne was very concerned about your well-being and learning in a ‘new teacher’-esque way, even if you literally threw yourself at her and had your arse literally eaten out by dragons for your troubles, even if she did seem to have no idea what to do with you. If she ever had to go to any of her teachers for anything, Saskia reckoned she’d be safest with Brienne. Ser Onion Knight, despite now having the reading level of an eight-year-old and being a pirate (or a _smuggler_ , as he corrected), was extremely knowledgeable about honour and too devoted to Stannis and Stannis-like methods of punishment. Plagiarising the upcoming paper on ladylike or gentlemanly behaviour in the presence of a king would get you multiple body parts lopped off, Davos had threatened, and Saskia didn’t doubt that he wouldn’t hesitate to carry through (though, surely, he’d do the honourable thing and treat the wounds himself so you’d not die in Qyburn’s mysterious hospital-lair thing).

Robb and Jon were, more often than not, oddly bemused at their students fancying them, Robb especially. He was fit and he knew it, but certainly not cocky about it—all of which made Saskia need him more. And he was brilliant, so brilliant at all that useless battle tactic stuff. And fit. And Saskia didn’t know about Bronn and Oberyn, but as far as Ygritte was concerned, the worst she’d do was laugh at you, smarmily make fun of you, and allow Little Hitler, otherwise known as Olly, to assault your genitals. Sansa, on the other hand, was more fond of throwing serious shade, Jeyne of disapproving silences, and Catelyn of downright motherly scolding, all of which, it seemed to Saskia, were very much needed in a class full of unladylike supposed ladies who, like herself, admittedly, acted more like peevish Disney princesses than highborn Westerosi girls.

Saskia even had, to her own surprise (and Tyrion’s), done her readings promptly and on time for _Canon for Feeble-Minded  Fanbrats_ ; Robert’s Rebellion was mostly new to her, but pre-canon events were certainly violent and dramatic enough to hold her interest. And she’d even done her drabble for Miss Oloi’s writing workshop with very little complaint, as the prompt was “[Character of your choice] dreams. 100 words. No OCs”, and whilst that meant no Lyalyah allowed, she could at least write a short bit on the love of her fictional life. The only other thing that sucked about the exercise was not having Microsoft Word to keep the length in check.

_Robb dreamt of wolves howling at the gates of Winterfell, and of weirwoods white as moons shivering in the harsh brunt of winter. Beyond the snows and ice of the North, a great army was arising—blue-eyed and straggling, advancing with the tides of wind._

_The North was rising, too, behind him, rallying forth their unfurling banners, sigils dark against the whitened sun on the far shores of the Lands of Always Winter. And with an immense clash of spear and helm, sword and hauberk, the North was won, and spring soon could come again to bless the buddening earth._

Whilst this drabble, which Saskia titled ‘A Dream of Winter’, wasn’t the best thing she’d written – ‘A Sweetness There: The Eternal Innocent in the Poetry of Hemans and Baillie’ took the prize there – Saskia was satisfied with it, and, seeing as how she’d made neither spelling errors nor baby dragons, the exercise was a success. Saskia, though, theretofore had been able to spell ‘Robb’ just fine, and Ned, and Sansa. She could even get Arya, Catelyn, Walder Frey, Tywin Lannister, Grey Wind, Jaime, and Rickard Karstark, and, of course, the stupid keyboard-mash names she’d given her own characters, like Jurndow and Lyalyah Ranford, Illeriah Brootyn, and Olwyn Blactard. That was all she really needed to know, after all, because weren’t there thousands of named characters, and weren’t the fair majority of them (excepting Robb, Catelyn, Tyrion, and Lyalyah, who wasn’t even canonical, but whatever) almost absolutely irrelevant?

Orla, naturally, did one drabble for each of her far too many OTPs, because Jaime whinging about wanting to see Brienne naked was evidently not enough, and nor was Sansa dreaming of Sandor’s uncharacteristically fluffy Valentine’s Day sexing, because, in Orla’s odd and uncanonical world, Valentine’s Day was a thing in Westeros, and Sandor loved it. It wasn’t even a modern AU— although, Saskia admitted, if it were a modern AU with a younger, more naïve Sansa, a less smutty version of the premise _might_ actually work. Most offensively, Orla’s prose read like a worse-than-usual-but-that’s-not-saying-much Nicholas Sparks novel— in other words, monosyllabic, obvious, sappy, and impertinently dreadful.

Despite that Orla’s writing sucked, she could at least spell. In fact, they were almost all careful with spelling (who _wanted_ to make dragons and incite the wrath of Tywin Lannister?), and Tywin was as happy as Tywin could be—that is to say, he still appeared stone-faced, but only slightly annoyed at the insolence of the fanbrats’ very existence. His tactic of hashing and rehashing the spelling of characters’ names so far seemed to be working, and did work… until Monday morning, at least.

Esther Whenlock, the mousy-haired Cockney girl in 1104 who was always whinging about there not being enough slash and crack in canon, the one who had written Jaime/some kind of jester smut, had apparently not done her homework for Canon for Feeble-Minded Fanbrats, and had rushed in front of Saskia and Lucy on their way to breakfast, clutching a quill, a bottle of ink, and the worksheet Tyrion and Sam gave them the lesson before. The girl was furiously scribbling something now, dotting the table and her eggs with splotches of ink in her haste, biting her lip bloody when she paused to think.

_Idiot procrastinator_ , Saskia thought. _That assignment was easy. Benjen is Ned’s missing little brother, and he was First Ranger of the Night’s Watch. How much does she need to explain? Wait, it’s Esther. It’s got to be bullshit._

Saskia would have paid Esther no more attention and returned to her damn amazing maple-bacon porridge had Esther not spawned miniature hell out of thin air just ten seats away. As the girl scrawled something down, there was a grumble and an ear-splitting crack in the air before her that caused everyone in the vicinity to shriek and many to jump out of their seats, spilling ale and food as they did so. Almost as immediately as the air went turbulent and grumbled, a tiny orange dragon appeared out of literal thin air and got at once to shrieking. It was on the small side for a mini dragon, and its blue eyes were so bright that it seemed almost a wight or the Mary Sue of dragons—though striking as it was, still the thing was terrifying.

Saskia watched, half amazed and half terrified, as the wee dragon flew into Jon Snow’s lap, whimpering for a share of his food and thrashing its little scaly body against his when he deftly dodged its snapping jaws to pop the last bit of streaky bacon into his mouth. Infuriated, it headbutted his dick and vomited in his cornflakes before taking off out the half-smashed window overhead, shrieking and hissing flame.

“Congratulations on another little misspelt Ygritte,” Daenerys crooned to Jon, doubled over in agony, passing him a fresh bowl of cereal and a much-needed mug of ale. “Those always go for the crotch.”

“Grmdsjffff,” he grunted into his ale.                                            

“Cool!” Carolina breathed, watching the wee dick-violent thing abscond. “I wanna make one!”

Tywin was up at once, and Tywin was Not Pleased™, and stood gripping the podium, mostly stoic but almost unnoticeably trying not to seethe. “Indeed. Esther Whenlock, you will go upstairs and change your smallclothes at once. You will leave your work with me. From now on, you will do your assignments at night, using books as a reference. You will also spend five hours in spelling detention after supper tonight. Begone, and be sure to be back in time for your lessons.”

“Seriously, Lucy, that thing was awesome. I wanna make one. _”_

Esther, whimpering, stood up, clutching her coursework in one hand and her conspicuously wet gown with the other, and brought her work up to a twitchy-lipped Tywin, sniffling the whole way. Lucy, without a thought other than, Saskia presumed, _oh my god adorable dragons and we can birth them with just ink and idiocy,_ scrambled for Esther’s abandoned quill and passed it to Carolina.

“Lucy, no!” Saskia hissed.

Letty shushed her. “Scared of a little dragon, eh?”

“Have you not seen them burn people?! Remember Sophie?”

“That was brilliant and you know it.”

“You pissed yourself, _Lettice_.”

“Did _not_.”

“Jaime Lannister had to drag you out from under a desk by your wee-wet ankles!”

“Did _not_.”

“I was right next to you!”

Lucy glanced up at the staff table and nodded to Carolina. “Tywin’s back to eatin’. Now.”

“Carolina! Lucy! No!”

**Bron is sexy** , Carolina wrote on the table.

Lucy peered at the table, blue eyes narrowed. “Oh, nothin’s happenin’. There’s got to be a Bron already.”

**BRAWN IS SEXY.**

BRAWN, emerging from nothing right above a plate of now shat-upon breadcakes, was not sexy. BRAWN was anything but attractive, in fact. BRAWN, in accordance with its name, was very large for a tiny dragon, near to the size of Greger and Gragor, and was much more terrifying than whichever one Esther had spawned, for BRAWN had Jerome Flynn’s life-sized head in place of a dragony one, and was spraying shit everywhere to boot. BRAWN was unable to support its Jerome Flynn-y head as it careened and squawked its way through the air and crashed headlong and at once into the staff table, earning a shriek from Sansa and laughter from Tyrion as it landed before them, splattering them both with porridge and fruit and, most like, dragon poo.

“The fuck is that?!”

“I… I _think_ it’s a dragon, Tyrion?” Sansa whispered, pulling a stray fig out of her cleavage in an unsexy and perfectly ordinary way that still made a multitude of fanboys moan, the Cryptkeeper of course included.

Jaime and Bronn took one look at the writhing, absolutely retarded thing lying twitchingly on a platter of grapes, and cracked up.

“A true beauty, Miss Nelson!” Bronn called. “Honoured, truly!”

Tywin, naturally, was less than happy. _Way_ less than happy, in fact.

“Carolina Nelson and Lucy Hothersall will spend ten consecutive hours in spelling detention tonight, and they will spend the weekend shovelling dragon droppings with Hodor, since they like the beasts so much,” he seethed at them. “And the next person who dares to intentionally spawn a dragon will find himself or herself fed to it alive.”

“Ten hours?!” Lucy wailed. “An entire weekend?!”

“You will no longer find my babies so adorable after a weekend of tending to them day and night, and sleeping amongst them, I assure you,” Daenerys called.

The morning wasn’t about to get any less weirdly terrifying in its own peculiar way, for as soon as Saskia and Lucy stumbled into Canon for Feeble-Minded Fanbrats, Tyrion and Sam were perusing all their homework, _tsk_ ing and looking only here and there pleased.

“Welcome back to the third part of our lesson on who’s who as the books begin, _Who Is Benjen? Not Me!_. Now with fewer activities and more lectures, mind, courtesy of my lord father’s preferred instructional methodology.”

“I hope you did the readin’,” Sam said with a shy smile.

Saskia beamed. She had done not only her writing, but her reading—the first twenty chapters of _A Game of Thrones_ in all, plus an adapted bit of _A World of Ice and Fire_ on basic Westerosi geography—and all, she thought proudly, without procrastinating or whinging and sulking like a bratty child. _She_ was clever. She knew where the Lands of Always Winter truly were, and had written a decent drabble about Robb with no OCs involved, and hadn’t made any dragons in the process. Could everyone else say the same? Was anyone else as devoted and clever as she was?

Tyrion, though, was less than happy (though not to Tywinly extremes), and took a long swig of wine as he perused their papers and continued to lecture at them in a likely Tywin-approved manner. The class setup certainly looked to be Tywin-approved: rows of desks occupied by silent and attentive students, _A Game of Thrones_ in hand, and nothing entering their minds but sweet, sweet canonical information practically shouted at them.

“Yes, Miss Hothersall, Benjen, spelt B-E-N-J-E-N, is Ned Stark’s younger brother. Very good. He is the son of Rickard Stark of Winterfell, was incredibly close to his older sister Lyanna. It seems you’ve been reading, Mr Huge. Thank you for an in-depth page and for citing multiple sources. For those of you who are confused, we will be starting with the Starks’ canonical backstory on Friday. ‘I don’t know’ is not an acceptable answer, Miss Moore and Mr Ramirez. You will both rewrite the assignment tonight. Ah, Miss Whenlock’s. The one that spawned a dragon. Why am I not surprised?”

Gods, this was going to be good. And by ‘good’, Saskia meant ‘absolutely batshit’. Tyrion certainly suspected so, too, as he chugged the remainder of his wine and immediately poured himself another massive flagonful.

“Miss Whenlock, Benjen Stark is Benjen Stark, younger brother of Ned Stark, and the as-of-right-now-in-book-canon missing First Ranger of the Black Brothers— as we most often call them in canon, the Night’s Watch. Repeat after me: _the Night’s Watch_. It is not funny to call them the Black Brothers.”

“It’s a bit racist-soundin’, you know,” Sam said.

Hannah nodded so hard that her chartreuse cat-eye glasses slipped off her pudgy nose. “Very problematic!” she hissed in Esther’s direction.

“Not my problem you’re offended at everything!” Esther shot back.

“That much about Benjen is true, at least, _girls_ ,” Tyrion continued with a slight groan, “and so is the notion that Benjen wanted Jon to, as you put it here, ‘get his dick wet and go a million times to fuck-town’. But Benjen, you see, is not a warg. He did not die north of the Wall and resort to warging Ygritte, spelt Y-G-R-I-T-T-E, so that he could fuck his own honour-obsessed nephew and show him what he’s missing. She did not fancy Jon because she was Benjen. Benjen did not purposely get his host killed to avoid consequences for his nephew-lover when he ended up returning to Castle Black. Benjen did not switch to warging Satin afterwards because, uh, _Bengritte_ enjoyed getting fucked by his nephew so much and wanted to reciprocate with a penis. You are disturbed and you have failed this assignment, but I do appreciate that you have been reading the books enough to know who Satin is and are curious enough to frequent ASOIAF boards to know about crackpot Benjen theories. I admire the creativity. The incorrect answer’s usually ‘who’s that?’ or ‘Daario’, and that got old years ago.”

Sam appeared confused, as if his brain had ceased to function at the sheer idiocy of Esther’s theory, and proceeded to drink directly from a ladle in Tyrion’s enormous personal keg of Dornish Red off in the corner.

“Well, that’s what I always thought Lord God GRRM was implying.” Saskia hadn’t got to _A Clash of Kings_ yet, but she was pretty sure that Benjen was just Benjen, and was not into warging widling girls for the purpose of fucking his own nephew. And who was Satin? Esther looked just as confused, and sat there staring at Tyrion with squinted eyes, her nose wrinkled, her thin lips pursed, her brow furrowed. Did she actually believe this bullshit? “Who _is_ Benjen, then, Lord Tyrion?”

“A better question is, who _isn’t_?” Keeley asked.

“I don’t think Ned or Robert Baratheon could be. Maybe Catelyn is?” offered Amy.

 “Or Nimble Dick and Big Bucket Wull!” Edrick suggested. “Septon Meribald? Ser Cortnay Penrose?”

 “Who?!” sputtered ninety percent of the class.

“Benjen is Benjen is Benjen is only just Benjen, as we’ve discussed?” said Sam quickly, before any other readers could get a word in on characters beyond the scope of non-readers.

“Benjen is Benjen is Benjen is only just Benjen,” Saskia could hear Letty mumbling to herself, rocking slightly in her chair as if she were going a wee bit mad. “Only just Benjen. Benjen is love. Benjen is life. Benjen is Benjen. Benjen is god.”

_The fuck?_

“And Benjen,” Tyrion added, “is missing at best, and dead or undead at worst in book canon. Miss Whenlock, you will also be rewriting this assignment. Sanely, I must add, and using the books as a reference. The last thing Her Grace needs is more dragons.”

“And the last thing this fandom needs is more incest,” came a stern voice from somewhere in the back of the classroom. “There is enough disturbing incest without you to encourage it, Tyrion.”

It was, of course, Tywin Lannister, looking exceptionally stern today all in black and a Lannistery scowl. As he prowled down the aisle between desks, Tyrion forced a lopsided smile and Sam visibly cowered. Not a fanbrat stirred nor spoke.

“Ah,” said Tyrion, as if to say _dear fucking gods, not you again,_ draining his goblet once more. “As opposed to pleasant incest, Father? Is that the type that happens under your own roof?”

Tywin stiffened. “Those are rumours.”

“Are they rumours if they’re true? We do not need to put on a show for the students. They have some familiarity with canon, enough for all of them to know the truth about Jai—”

“Get out. All of you,” Tywin commanded. “Except you, Tyrion.”

“JAIME AND CERSEI.”

“Get out. Now.”

“Very well, very well! You must listen to my lord father,” Tyrion conceded, sliding off the desk and shooing them out. “Do not forget your assignment! Write ‘Benjen is Benjen is Benjen is only just Benjen’ a hundred times! Sam will be counting! Jaime and Cersei will be fucking!”

“No, they will _not_.”

“Oh, but Father, they _have_. Where do you suppose dear departed Joffrey came from?” Tyrion said as the students all scrambled to leave. Saskia would take her own sweet time packing up her quills and ink and papers, Lucy doing the same, as _this_ was a conversation that neither of them wanted to miss. Tywin had to know about Cersei and Jaime, right? Did he know about Jaime and Brienne, if they were a thing as they kind of seemed to be?

“They have not.”

“Have _too_.”

And with that, Tywin turned on Tyrion and came face to face with Lucy, standing stupidly behind her desk with nothing packed up and a far too intrigued look on her face.

Tywin seethed. “ _Out_ , Lucy Hothersall. You are in enough trouble as it is. You too, Saskia Crockett. Lord Manderly will be needing you. Go immediately. Leave your things. Shoo. _Shoo_.”

“Well, that were a mint mornin’!” Lucy breathed as the door clicked shut behind them.

_~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~_

_*For those of you who don’t frequent ASOIAF boards, there was a dumb theory aeons ago that Benjen is Daario. He’s Euron. He’s Coldhands (which, okay, was a reasonable theory until Leaf’s ‘they killed him long ago’ line). He’s Syrio, he’s Jaqen, he’s the Night’s King and the Dusky Woman, but he’s probably just Benjen. And dead. I’ve not ever seen Benjen = Ygritte = Satin, but, then again, I was massively drunk when I came up with that on a night out, because a night out almost always includes me drunkenly pondering absolute bullshit on a dance floor whilst strange blokes try to snog me. It sounded like a totally reasonable theory at the time—like, I mean, what if she says ‘You know nothing, Jon Snow’ all the time because she’s trying to hint that he doesn’t know she’s Benjen? You may thank Captain Morgan for my insights into these books and for the existence of this fic._

_*See any horrid misspellings of a character’s name? Let me know in a review or PM and there shall be a mini x_


	14. Mannis Mannis Mannis

**Mannis Mannis Mannis**

Saskia was feeling good. Statistically, there was a very good chance that she was going to survive the remainder of the year, given a few givens. One, that she didn’t attempt to stampede or murder the staff in a way that the dragons found threatening. Two, that she didn’t continue to climb things she ought not to climb. Three, that she not kill anyone by accident or otherwise. All in all, though, Westeros wasn’t all that bad, and whilst surviving here was certainly different to living in England, it wasn’t horrific, minus the spiders in the bath.

The morning was about to become even more mint, too, as, upon returning to the Hawick common room on the ground floor of the Wailing Tower after Canon for Feeble-Minded Fanbrats, there were eighty envelopes with names on them awaiting on the grand table.

 “Presents!” exclaimed Ilze and Amy in unison, rushing for theirs.

“Oh, just our advisory notices,” said Sara, reaching for the one that read _Sara Taylor_. “Miss Ellie said we’d be getting those soon. We’re supposed to see our advisors weekly for in-depth feedback on our writing.”

That made sense, as how else was Miss Oloi expected to mark three hundred and nineteen (well, three hundred and twelve, considering recent events) drabbles? Hoping and praying that she’d get Robb, darling Robb, sexy Robb, Saskia reached for her envelope and opened it.

_Your advisor for the year is Tyrion Lannister. Your weekly meeting time is as follows:_

_Tuesday, 8.00 pm._

_Please come prepared at the aforementioned time with your first completed writing assignment. Your advisor looks forward to working with you._

Half pleased (Tyrion was wonderful) and half totally and irrevocably gutted (Tyrion was not Robb, and she would love to spend an entire half hour in Robb’s solar, alone with him but for perhaps a mini dragon, at night, when perhaps he would look so fit and sleep-tousled and need to be coaxed to sleep over a hot mug of tea and fluffy conversation), Saskia sunk into her chair, trying not to tremble. It wasn’t the end of the world if she didn’t get this time with Robb, right? But Miss Ellie, Saskia reckoned, was cleverer than that, and wouldn’t assign you to a staff member you fancied. Besides, what would the real and totally-with-feelings-and-opinions Robb Stark think about such lines as the ones Jaqen had quoted back to her? That considered, it was probably for the best that she’d not got Robb as an advisor.

Esther had also got Tyrion, to her disappointment; she’d been hoping for Hodor, whose only vocabulary word would prevent him from telling on her if she wrote batshit things again. Letty had got Robb (to Saskia’s immense jealousy and her own glee, because now she could finally see if he was sexing Theon in his solar), whilst Lucy was shrieking over having Jaime and not darling Oberyn or sexy Jon. Amy was disappointed with Bronn, and Eve and Kayleigh were sobbing over not getting their respective bastards. Orla, shockingly, was not having a fit of jealous whinging over Lucy’s luck, and sat tittering in her chair, smirking with glee at her own sheet which, Saskia could see when she brandished it about, read, _Your advisor for the year is Ygritte._

“Dear God,” whispered Jay Remo, the boy who read, shaking his head. “This is going to end in a stabbing.”

“Of Jon’s porky-porky poooooke stiiiick!” Orla sang, sniggering and snorting quite loudly. “First comes looooove, then comes marriage, then comes the baby in the baby carriage!”

“Dear God. You live with this, Saskia?”

Saskia felt a momentary twinge of pity for her teachers, then realised that _she_ was the one who deserved more pity for having to live in the same quarters as Orla and in the same vicinity as Esther. _And_ she slept in the same bed as Lucy, who hogged the blankets and wouldn’t ever stop chunnering about burritos and Oberyn and phallic weapons and Marvel comic book films Saskia had never seen. _And_ she lived with Letty, too, who was… well, Letty. That is to say, insane, as Saskia would find out the following evening…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 _Come to the ruined sept at 7.00 pm. I’ve something to show you,_ the note on her bed that evening had read, in Letty’s splotchy cursive.

Wondering what the world Letty could possibly have to show her, Saskia grabbed her Robb drabble and her cloak and set off for the sept across the courtyard, near the edge of the great godswood. Perhaps Letty had been practising her archery and had, to her pride, hit something other than the ground—or, maybe, she’d written some lewd Theon/Robb smut and was hosting some kind of theatrical reading of it, which really wouldn’t be beyond overdramatic Letty at all.

When Saskia arrived at the sept, she was not prepared for what she saw. Letty was regally splayed out in a broken spinny chair at the head of the long-disused sept, her hair not a bit out of place, blue skirt hitched up in a way that made her look rather wanton otherwise, the dying light of the sun reflected in her obviously dyed black hair. All in all, that wasn’t a sight unlike any of Letty in the Hawick common room, or in their chambers—never mind the horde of fans lying on the floor before her and the grand solemnness and religiosity of the ruins in which they sprawled.

“BENJEN! COME TO ME!” a Lothston girl wailed, quaking so hard that her back uncomfortably kept thumping the hard stone floor. “COME, LORD, COME LORD BENJEN!!!”

“BENJEN! BENJEN! BENJEN!” came the unanimous reply, in fevered tones. “BENJEN! BENJEN! BENJEN!”

Nine girls and the Cryptkeeper lay prone on the dusty stone floor, their legs drawn up and spread as if they were getting fucked or giving birth, their lips replaying a constant interlude of _Benjen, Benjen, Benjen_. There was Victoria Harries, a brunette, burly Californian girl in their archery section who had never said a word to either of them, much less probably noticed them before the promise of Benjen, and Victoria’s black friend, also in their archery section, whose name Saskia had never got. There was Rebecca Waite, an American in their Canon lectures who happened to be the only fanbrat around (and hopefully the only fanbrat anywhere) who sexually desired Hodor, and several other Lothston and Hawick girls whose faces Saskia recalled but whose names she’d never learnt.

_The fuck? And I thought ‘Benjen is love, Benjen is life’ was weird, and that Letty was crazy for her obsession with killing Mr Blobby and Jon/Theon/Robb threesomes…_

“Welcome to my lair, Saskia. I am high priestess in the Kingdom of Benjen,” said Letty.     

 “What… what in seven hells are they _doing_ , Letty?” Saskia whispered. _Other than parting with their sanity._

“The Benjenites are opening the gates of their bodies and souls so that Benjen may penetrate and warg them, should their paltry vessels please his purpose.”

“Oh my god.”

So Letty had started some kind of… well, it had to be some kind of cult, hadn’t it? There were no appropriate words in any language besides _oh my god_ or the equivalent to describe exactly what this was, what was going on. Saskia hadn’t even known Letty to be _capable_ of speaking so eloquently – she was, after all, obsessed with Starkcest and Throbb to the point of squeeing endlessly about incestuous sex and murder. Letty, despite her calmness (well, relative to Orla and Lucy and girls like Kayleigh and Evie, at least), was actually just a bit insane.

 _If she’s actually insane, and Lucy and Orla are, does that mean that_ I _am too and I just don’t know it?_

“Well… uh… how do you know these people?” Saskia ventured. “I mean, other than Victoria and Archibald?”

“These Benjenites, you mean?” said Letty, with a fond and pleased grin at Victoria Harries, who had just cried _BENJEN!!!_ and spasmed so hard against the floor that it shook dust from the cracking ceiling. “If you talk of Benjen, they will come.”

It certainly looked as if they were going to come, all right—at least the Cryptkeeper was going to, at any rate, in his usual seedy fashion.

“Letty… _why?_ ”

She shrugged. “I just kind of felt like starting a cult, that’s all. Melisandre’s always made the crazy religion thing look cool, and Benjen was an easy target for cultlike worship. He’s not here. He can’t shoot it down like Stannis does the Mannimals. And besides, I’m just capitalising on the recent fervour for Benjen.”

Saskia figured there was a difference between being a devoted follower of the Lord of Light, an accepted god in Westeros, and being absolutely batshit and worshipping a presumed-dead member of the Night’s Watch for no apparent reason… but she wasn’t about to argue with Letty.

“Tywin’s going to hate this when he finds out,” she said, because Tywin would certainly somehow be finding this out. Nothing stayed secret for long at the Official Fanfiction University of Westeros.

“So? The hour is ripe for Benjen. So am I.” And, with a pointed look, Letty asked, “Are you?”

“Ripe for Benjen? Uh… no… no, I’m not,” Saskia said, backing away some. “Now if you’ll pardon me, I’ve my meeting with Tyrion in a few.”

Saskia hauled serious arse out of the sept, whilst behind her the evening was alive with cries of _BENJEN, BENJEN, BENJEN!_

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Brienne was sat in her solar, poring over the list of students she would unfortunately have to mentor for the remainder of the academic year—and by gods, these were some interesting cases of horrible Game of Thrones fanfiction, kinds that Brienne had only heard about through other staff members and was lucky enough to not have seen yet.

_Lily Grey, 17, USA  
Disease: Insipid High School Gendrya AUs_

_Nathan Hall, 21, USA  
Disease: Gary Stu (Son of Stannis)_

_Gemma Temperley, 19, AUS  
Disease: Bad Crossovers (My Little Pony/Game of Thrones)_

_Aaron Jackson, 18, USA  
Disease: Self-Insert/Falling to Westeros_

_Frédérique Dupin, 20, FRA  
Disease: Mary Sue (Robb)_

_Amanda West, 18, UK  
Disease: Improbable Slash (Davos/Jon, Jojen/Hodor)_

How could you possibly reason with someone who thought it wise and perfectly natural to write a My Little Pony crossover, whatever My Little Pony was, or someone who shipped Jojen Reed with Hodor? The first of these students to come tonight, Mr Hall, could at least be reasoned with, Brienne thought, and the girl who wrote high school AUs would likely grow out of it with time. The Mary Sue girl’s lust would shrivel when she realised Robb wouldn’t ever love her – that was usually the case – and her genuine admiration for her lust object grow when she realised there was more substance to him than good looks and a kingly demeanour. That, or they tended to find new characters to admire from, you know, actually reading the books for once.

When Mr Nathan Hall did arrive, Brienne found, to her dismay, that he could not be reasoned with at all. The lad before her was tall and overweight – though not to Wyman Manderly proportions – and had a scraggly beard that needed a good trimming so that it didn’t spread all over his flabby neck. He was clad in a just barely too-tight red Blackwood tunic and trousers that were, Brienne noticed with a soon-retracted glance, a bit too tight around the crotch. He was holding a massive folder of parchment, the kind found in Westeros and not his world, so it seemed to Brienne that the lad must have written _that much_ since his arrival at the university, when only assigned to write a hundred-word drabble.

“I wrote a Mannis. Mannis,” he said.

“Pardon?”

“I wrote a Mannis. Mannis.” And he drew out hundreds of pages from the bursting folder and placed them neatly on her desk with great love and care, pimply face aglow with what couldn’t quite be lust, could it? “A Mannis. Mannis.”

“You mean to say that you wrote a fanfiction about Stannis Baratheon?” Brienne asked.

“Mannis.”

_Was that supposed to be affirmative?_

“I… see,” said Brienne slowly, unsure of how to proceed in the presence of such a one-track mind. “Tell me more.”

“Mannis.”

“I see. Tell me more.”

“Mannis is king,” Nathan said proudly. “Mannis is God. And I am his son.”

“You are Nathan Hall, son of Brienne glanced at his chart, “…son of Michael and Sharon Hall, of Nashville, Tennessee. Stannis Baratheon does not exist in your world. He is fictional.”

“In my story. I am the Mannis’s son. You killed my father in shitty show canon. Prepare to die.”

 _Yet he seems so proud and happy to have written about the Mannis that he doesn’t look like he wants to slaughter me, at least?_ But, with a hiss from Cersie and Ramsey and BRAWN, the mini dragons lurking in the corner, and his ever-escalating pride and obsession over his darling work, the lad was soon babbling nonsense once more, his threat to Brienne forgot.

“I wrote a Mannis. I am Nathanael Storm, bastard son of Stannis and a tavern wench. And my father acknowledges me and sends me to be trained as sellsword in Essos since the age of six. Mannis. I am that talented. I can wield a broadsword at the age of nine and defeat the greatest warriors in a tournament in Lys. Mannis hears of my deeds and summons me home, but I am bitter and refuse. Mannis, Mannis, Mannis. And then, by the time I am fifteen, I am leading an army of 100,000 Unsullied and come home to my Mannis when he summons me for help to defeat the White Walkers. Mannis. We reconcile and I am to inherit Storm’s End and Dragonstone and I marry Daenerys. Now we have an army of 250,000 Unsullied, all with Valyrian steel swords. Mannis.”

“Then let’s have a look at it,” said Brienne with as straight a face as possible. There were so many things wrong with the lad’s story that she had no idea where to start and no urges but to grimace and shake her head. Doing her best not to sigh, Brienne opened to a random page and began reading.

_“I am Nathanael son of Stannis Baratheon” he said sneering “And I am here to kill you”_

_“Die bastard” said the nights king, who was cold and evil._

_Nathanael spun around drawing Lifecleaver his Valarian sword from its sheeth and he whipped it about. The nights king did not look afraid and drew his own ice sword that was colder than ice. “Come to me and die you puny mortal” he said._

_“I am not a puny mortal I am the son of Stannis” he said dodging a swing of the nights kings blade. The nights king hacked and hacked away at the air because Nathanael was two fast for his blows. And in one swipe of his blade across the freezing air the nights king stumbled before Nanthaeneal and was hit by the sword. The nights king died._

_“You did so great my love” said Daenerys smiling at the corpse of the nights king which was smoking smoke and being a pile of ice “Now you will give me oral sex”_

Brienne let out an inevitable sigh. Not only was the lad incapable of punctuating, he was incapable of writing a realistic battle that didn’t involve one party being totally and uncanonically overpowering his opponent. And the last line. That last line needed to go, as did the Stu marrying Daenerys (as half of them did, whilst some shacked up with Lady Sansa). _Well, all of it needs to go if the rest of the fanfiction is like this. I could throw it into the fire and this university’s mission of ridding the fandom of horrible stories be in a small way accomplished…_

Instead, Brienne just said, “Well, Nathan, that’s very interesting how your Gary Stu fights the Night’s King, but…”

“Mannis, Mannis, Mannis, Mannis, Stannis the Mannis, Mannis, Mannis, Mannis, Stannis is the Mannis…” Nathan suddenly interrupted, tittering and whispering to himself, rocking in the chair, his size making the thing creak and reminding Brienne almost of Manderly.

What in seven hells was she supposed to do in a situation like this? Call for help knocking some sense and decent writing into the lad? _It’s too obvious and expected if I go to Jaime for help. Besides, he may be back in his chambers, for all I know._ Robb’s door, opposite the corridor, was shut, and she’d not ten minutes ago heard Daenerys, to the right, leave for the night. And to the left was Oberyn’s solar, but here and there strange thumps and moans were coming from the rather thick wall, so she assumed she’d best not interfere with whatever was going on there. _The same thing I wish I could do to Jaime sometimes, were we properly wed…_

“Having trouble in here?” came a voice from the door.

 _Jaime, very conveniently_ , looking rather handsome in his white Kingsguard cloak and a Lannistery gold tunic that fit so perfectly across his toned chest. _Not that I am noticing._

“He won’t stop saying ‘Mannis’,” said Brienne. “No one ever trained me on how to deescalate rabid Stannis fanboys.”

“There’s nothing that a little slap doesn’t cure, except, as Bronn says, for being a cunt,” said Jaime, proffering his golden hand as he walked towards the lad. “Tyrion tried so hard with Joffrey.”

“We’re not allowed to—”

“Do you think that ever stops Olly?” interrupted Jaime. And suddenly he raised his hand and smacked Nathan hard on the upper arm, and the lad at once stilled and calmed, no longer spouting Stannisy bullshit. “Relax, Brienne. See? The lad’s better.”

“Mannis,” said Nathan calmly.

Jaime’s golden hand descended to his flabby arm again.

“I… I mean,” sputtered the Mannimal, “I’m sorry, m’lady, m’ good ser.”

“See, Brienne? A little violence never hurt anyone.”

“It hurt me just... just a little bit,” offered Nathan, wincing.

“Mr Hall and I are going to have a little talk about the proper sizes of Westerosi and Essosi armies, if you don’t mind letting me take him for ten minutes,” said Jaime, pulling the lad to his feet and ushering him out of the solar, shutting the door behind him. “And we’ll have a talk about tactics for one-on-one combat. And… everything, really. I’ll leave the Stannis obsession and more of the weaponry talk for you. Get a bit of rest and brace yourself for worse fanfiction tonight. Goodnight, Brienne,” he said with surprising and sudden tenderness, turning to go.

“Goodnight, Jaime,” she said, somehow wishing he would not go.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As much as I like long chapters, I’m going to try to keep them in the 3000-4000 word range so that they get out to you much quicker than I would if I mulled over them for too long. I hope the fanboy was just as ridiculous as the fangirls. I know this fic is more fangirl focussed, so I am trying to be a bit more balanced in my mockery of the fandom, which is much more heavily male than my other fandoms (you don’t see too many lads writing Downton Abbey and Harry Potter fics).
> 
> Next on: Saskia meets Tyrion, and Oberyn and Bronn unleash a terror on the students. Muahahaha.


	15. NO TEARS JUST SPEARS

**NO TEARS JUST SPEARS**

Tyrion sighed, looking over his advisory sheet as he mulled over his flagon of wine. “I’ve got Saskia Crockett, Petri Mustonen, Bella Sanchez, Morgan Smith, Carys Pritchard, and Esther Whenlock. _Miss Whenlock_ , Jaime,” he groaned.

“Not terrible, considering.”

“Not terrible? Mr Smith is far too obsessed with Sandor and Cleganebowl, and insists that I am a time-travelling foetus. Miss Sanchez won’t rest until she successfully seduces Father and then sets him up with Sansa. Unfortunately, she’s got Miss Oloi and seven others for competition. Mr Mustonen’s got a thing for ‘Cersei with her bitch face on’, of all people, though I suppose talking to me will cure him of it, or perhaps her visit later in the year shall do the trick. Though… when does Cersei _not_ look like that?”

“Never,” Jaime agreed.

“Miss Crockett stalks trouble and staff, but Wyman’s work seems to be taming her some. _Some_. We’ll see. Miss Pritchard is obsessed with Jon Snow, but that sort of thing is easily curable in comparison to Stannis obsessions and believing D + D = T. She’ll not be much work. But then there’s Miss Whenlock. She told Miss Oloi the other day that Aeron must’ve been raped by a door warged by Moqorro.”

“Robb says she told Stannis to divorce Selyse and marry peaches.”

Tyrion took a swig of wine. “Peaches?!” he sputtered.

“On the bright side, you can laugh at Miss Whenlock,” said Jaime. “Sansa’s got Hockins. You can’t laugh at Hockins.”

“Who was lucky enough to get the sane one?”

“Mr Remo? Lady Stark. Though he probably thinks he’s having a nice chat with his future mother-in-law and is not to be schooled in proper writing of fanfiction.”

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door.

“Ah. Here she is, the girl of the hour…” Tyrion said, grimacing and waving Jaime away. “Come in, Miss Whenlock, come in…”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Miss Whenlock, _no_ ,” came Tyrion’s voice from his solar.

_Aww yiss, mothafuckin’ Esther,_ Saskia thought, grinning as she crouched against the wall right beside the door, drabble in hand. This was going to be good. It was going to be even better for her, because… well, anything she wrote would be much more decent in comparison to whatever Esther decided to ship that week, and Tyrion would love her writing and hold her up as an exemplar of decency and brilliance and normality, all for very little effort of her own other than trying to be somewhat normal and not as wildly fannish and lustful about Robb as Jaqen insisted that she was.

“ _Many men had cut Strong Belwas, but only one, a slight, secretive, sexy crannogman, had cut his heart._ Miss Whenlock, by now I should know better than to ask you what in seven hells this is and what in seven hells is wrong with you.”

_Who the fuck’s Strong Belwas, and what’s a crannogman?_ Saskia mused. Whatever and whoever they were, clearly shipping it was a big no-no, maybe much worse than Robb/Lyalyah.

“It’s love in its purest and most animalistic form. Did you see the part with the onion prostate massage?”

“Unfortunately. Why is Howland Reed even in Meereen?”

“Because ‘e’s really Benjen and therefore Daario?”

“No. Just no. And I thought Benjen was now inhabiting the body of Satin? Or has he moved on to warging Three-Finger Hobb and Donal Noye? Or perhaps Jon Snow thinks Val is beautiful because she is his uncle?”

“Perhaps,” Esther sighed, “but we are _all_ vessels of Lord Benjen.”

Tyrion coughed. “Come back to me next week with whatever Miss Oloi assigns you, Miss Whenlock, and make sure that it is _sane_ next time. No onion prostate massages. No Strong Belwas/Howland Reed. No crackpot Benjen theories. Perhaps, if you like writing about Sansa Stark as your fanfiction history suggests, you could try a me/Sansa AU or something Stark-based and not batshit.”

And Esther spilled out of the solar, shaking her head. She noticed Saskia waiting and made a noise of dissatisfaction. “Don’t get your ‘opes up ‘e’ll like whatever Robb stuff you’ve written,” she said. “’E’s impossible to please.”

“Right, thanks for the heads up,” said Saskia. _Or maybe it’s impossible for you to be sane._

“Lord Tyrion?” Saskia said, gingerly stepping into the solar. And there he was sat at a desk far too large for him, in a chair far too large for him, surrounded by stacks and shelves of books and flanked by Carl Drogo and Peter Bealish the dragons.

“And what have you brought me today, Miss Crockett?” he said, gesturing for her to sit.

“It’s a drabble about Robb,” she said, passing it over.

He gave her a pointed look. “A smutty drabble, Miss Crockett?”

“No, it’s… normal, I reckon?” she whispered, fixated on his skeletony gaping nose hole. “I mean, there’s no nakedness and lust.”

“Thank the old gods. Thank the seven. Thank the god of tits and wine,” Tyrion replied. “And speaking of wine, drink up,” he said, pouring her a glass.

Saskia took a trembling sip, then another, then another. This wine was good, rich and sweet and potent. Clearly the good stuff was reserved for staff, as the diluted stuff served at luncheon was certainly nowhere near as good.

“Robb dreamt of wolves howling at the gates of Winterfell, and of weirwoods white as moons shivering in the harsh brunt of winter,” Tyrion read. “Beyond the snows and ice of the North, a great army was arising—blue-eyed and straggling, advancing with the tides of wind. The North was rising, too, behind him, rallying forth their unfurling banners, sigils dark against the whitened sun on the far shores of the Lands of Always Winter. And with an immense clash of spear and helm, sword and hauberk, the North was won, and spring soon could come again to bless the budding earth.”

Saskia waited with bated breath, then finished her goblet. Tyrion’s face was expressionless (and so scarred and gaping and weird, kinda ew). What was he going to think of her first OC-less fic, one that hopefully wasn’t as lustful and ridiculous as Jaqen claimed her writing was (and had to be, because she was at a university just for that)?

“Not bad and nicely descriptive for only being a hundred words,” said Tyrion. That was a relief. “You are wise enough now to know what weirwoods and sigils are, and you are imaginative to have Robb alive and fighting, if only in his dreams, during a long and maybe last winter. Not exactly interesting or original, but there aren’t any throbbing members or OCs or canon characters being raped by doors. I’d say it’s a first job well-done.”

“Miss Oloi wouldn’t allow them,” Saskia said a bit dejectedly, despite the partially half-hearted praise. “The OCs, I mean. And I reckon being raped by doors is verboten, too.”

“Indeed,” he said, pouring them both more wine. “And how are you finding life in Westeros?”

“Could be better, could be worse. There are spiders in the baths and I’m scared of the dragons and terrified of Ramsay and Jaqen H’ghar hit me with a stick and I’ve got to work for Wyman Manderly and Stannis makes us march outside in phalanxes at three in the morning and Jeyne is married to Robb and Neddy exists, but… but the food is good and I’ve made some friends and…” she blushed, “…and I get to see Robb Stark every day. That’s a plus.”

“Of course, as expected. And your teachers?”

“I don’t know. Nice? Well, some of them. In character?”

“Mostly, I should hope,” said Tyrion, “though I suppose tomorrow might change your opinion of that slightly. Or a lot.”

“What’s… what’s tomorrow?” Saskia stammered. Tomorrow was Wednesday, which meant she had Archery, her writing workshop, and Contemporary Issues in Westerosi Society, and not one of her teachers had mentioned anything particularly interesting or unusual about the day… though, Saskia thought, her stomach lurching sickeningly, it would be rather out of character for them to orchestrate reasons to kill her if they weren’t Ramsay or Olly or Joffrey, thankfully and hopefully permanently deceased in this canon.

“You will see. You will see, with any luck only this once,” said Tyrion reassuringly, pouring Saskia and entirely new goblet of wine and sliding it across the desk at her. “No need to fret, Miss Crockett. By now you should know we don’t aim to kill you in any way. We your teachers don’t, at least...”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

There was a limit to Tyrion’s reassurances, and not much limit to Saskia’s anxiety.

‘Tomorrow’ was finally here, and though Saskia had spent some time worrying about what Tyrion had meant by his characterisation remark (would Davos and his BFF Stannis go completely off the rails and start lopping off body parts for no reason, or would Catelyn lock them all outside again and start playing the Rains of Castamere and have all the girls who hated sewing brutally shanked and slain?), she’d had a bit of wine and stopped fretting. For the most part, by her own estimation.

The staff were eating their breakfasts rather normally, no sign of out-of-character happenings going on. Robb was feeding Neddy spoonfuls of porridge as Jeyne held the wee baby in her lap, and Sansa was conversing with her mother, and Rickon, under the careful watch of his nanny Osha, was smashing peas into the table and making a horrid mess. Olly was glowering whilst Jon tried to convince him to eat his eggs (the lad likely lived on a diet of souls), Sandor was scowling at fanbrats, Ramsay was polishing his brand new neon yellow vuvuzela, and Stannis the Mannis was marking the previous day’s homework, his lips contorted into a frustrated frown.

Miss Ellie, though, was at the podium on the dais, waiting expectantly for silence.

“An announcement, sweet summer children—” Miss Ellie began.

“ARE SANSA AND SANDOR GETTING MARRIED?” Orla shrieked immediately, jumping up onto her chair and staring with rabid intensity at Sansa, who was, to likely Orla’s immense disappointment, sitting too far away from Sandor. “ARE JAIME AND BRIENNE—”

“No one’s gettin’ married,” the Hound gruffed loudly, “unless you’d like me to wed a sword to your face!”

“An announcement— of an _academic nature_ , Orla Dwyer,” Miss Ellie seethed as Tywinly as she could—which was not well or stoic enough at all. “You may lower your hand, get down off that chair, and stifle the trifling waste you consider thoughts. Prince Oberyn?”

Lucy welly swooned as Prince Oberyn, in his beautiful orange robes, ascended to the podium, looking right fit as ever.

“As some of you are aware, my paramour Ellaria and my four youngest daughters live with me. My eldest, Obara, does not, and she will be visiting the Official Fanfiction University of Westeros to instruct you in a subject most important. She will be making a rounds of all Slaying 101 lessons for the remainder of the week, beginning this morning, with an important message on being a strong female warrior. Of _course_ ,” Oberyn said with a piercing look at Tywin and a jerk of the head towards Brienne, “such a lecture could have been more reasonably and inexpensively achieved in other ways. Please give my daughter your undivided attention, or she will be angry. Very angry.”

_So Obara, whatever she’s like in the books, is out of character and is angry? Is that all that Tyrion had meant?_

“FIELD TRIP!” Amy squealed, pounding the table so hard she knocked over an entire goblet of honeyed mead in the process.

“It’s not a field trip if you don’t go anywhere new, turdbrain,” said Esther.

“Who you calling turdbrain?!”

“You?”

“But we get to go to outside! With the other Slaying classes! And we get to meet Obara!”

“Still not a field trip. That’s an assembly.”

Amy pouted. “Why are you so cruel to me?”

“Cos I’m your cousin! I’m allowed to be!”

Field trip or assembly or whatever it was, it’d be a nice break, Saskia thought, from trying to shoot targets and failing miserably whilst Ygritte helped her and teased her simultaneously, all under the evil glare of Little Hitler. Or it’d be nice if Lucy managed to control herself around Oberyn, her new favoured lust object, because Lucy was now chunnering something, once again, about spears and flesh and _gripping it firmly_ and how fit her darling Prince of Dorne looked this morning.

“Oberyn’s just so _perfect_ ,” Lucy finished, sighing, her lust for Jon Snow seemingly and totally forgot.

As soon as all three of that morning’s various Slaying classes (and various staff, including Robb, Jeyne, Catelyn, Jon, Sansa, Daenerys, Ramsay, Tyrion, Jaime, Tommen, and five of Tommen’s cats, all on leads) were outside on the tourney-field, the hilarious horror began. It started, naturally, with Letty.

“I’m not sitting down! The grass is wet! And spiders live in grass!” Letty was whimpering at the instructions that Bronn and Oberyn had given them all. “I’m not! I’m not!”

“That they do,” said Oberyn with sexy nonchalance, smirking. “You should be happy that you are not north of the Wall, and that the itty bitty leggy itchy things that soon will crawl and bite beneath your smallclothes are not the size of hounds, with pincers big enough to rip your face off. Ask Tormund to tell you about those. I am sure he will be thrilled to oblige in much greater and memberier detail.”

“Spiders! With pincers!” Letty gesticulated to the grass in an overdramatic fashion as she continued to whimper. “With _pincers_! Save me, Lord Benjen!”

“Benjen!” someone echoed.

“Are you sitting down and shutting up as you were asked, or am I slicing your eyes out bit by bit with a rusty lancet?” Bronn grunted to Letty. “Down, Miss… fuck it, whatever the fuck your surname is. Miss Salad. You get down as well, Miss Nelson.”

Carolina, too, was one of the last students still standing, smirking at the fine object of her affection with her arms folded across her chest—as usual, in casual defiance of everything horrid asked of her.

“I love it when men say that to me,” she grinned as she slumped to her knees as seductively as possible.

“Not… on… your… knees,” Bronn grumbled. “The next time you’ll be on your knees, it’ll be to have your head lopped off. Will that be today, Miss Nelson?”

“Maybe? It would be a sweet death,” said Carolina. “Wait, why have you got a spear?”

“You don’t want to see what happens when I don’t,” Bronn said.

“Well, you’ve a nicer one in your pants.”

Bronn just groaned, shaking his head. “Right, you lot,” he said to the by now totally seated crowd. “A quick word before we meet our esteemed guest, Obara Sand—or, as we call her here, Showbara. If you’ve sensitive hearing, please move to the back of the crowd. She won’t be quiet unless she’s acknowledged. A ‘thanks, yes, no, please, Showbara’ usually does the trick. And whatever you do, indulge her and _do. not. laugh_. Do as she commands. She has been known to harpoon those who offend her.”

“Somewhere in the transition from book to television, there was a rift,” Oberyn added. “An accident, perhaps. Obara has never been the same. Something in her cracked. Some say it was the writing on the show that caused it. Some say it was my demise that pushed her over the edge.”

Saskia hadn’t got to any part of the books that involved Oberyn or the Sand Snakes, but even she had to admit that the Dorne storyline was the worst-written and most painful one to watch, and that Obara and the short-haired one (Tyene?) were horrible. But how much worse could the girl be than she was in the show? Sure, the Sand Snakes were a little ridiculous with their monologuing and silly fight scenes and bad pussies and… well, everything, but how much more out of character could Obara Sand – Showbara – be?

A lot worse, in fact, and a lot stupidly funnier. The olive-skinned woman that Oberyn led before them was maybe about twenty-five or so, with a long, lean face, dark eyes, a spear in hand, and, as soon as she opened her mouth, no volume control. Next to her was a massive pile of spears. This was Obara Sand— or was, at one point, Obara Sand, before David and Dan had got to her.

“HELLO,” Showbara yelled with all the confused obviousness of a Gumby. “I AM OBARA SAND I FIGHT FOR DORNE.”

“She’s _beautiful_!” the Cryptkeeper and another fanboy moaned in unison. The Cryptkeeper’s hand roved to his pocket, as usual, but Bronn, quick to act, smacked it with the butt of his spear.

“She’s stupid,” Edrick corrected.

Obara paid no mind to the comments about her, much less the Cryptkeeper’s predictable masturbation attempt, and only continued her tiresome monologue. “DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM MY NAME IS OBARA SAND I FIGHT FOR DORNE I AM THE BASTARD DAUGHTER OF OBERYN OF HOUSE MARTELL I AM THE ELDEST OF THE SAND SNAKES THAT IS TO SAY OBERYN’S DAUGHTERS. MY MOTHER—”

Several pairs of eyes wandered over to Ellaria, standing by Oberyn and holding his hand in a way that, seemingly, did not make pervy Lucy discouraged or jealous at all. As Lucy hoped, Oberyn and Ellaria would never be discouraging of extra-relationship hanky-panky.

“What? Don’t look at me. I didn’t birth it,” Ellaria snapped.

“—WAS A WHORE IN OLDTOWN SHE NAMED ME AFTER MY FATHER DO YOU KNOW MY FATHER OBERYN OF THE HOUSE MARTELL OF SUNSPEAR I WILL AVENGE HIS DEATH.”

“Easy there, Showbara. _Volume_.”

Showbara only stared at Bronn confusedly for half a second, and continued with her repetitive speech.

“WHEN I WAS A CHILD I HAD NOTHING MY MOTHER WAS A WHORE IN OLDTOWN AND MY FATHER IS OBERYN MARTELL. I HAD NOTHING NOT EVEN FOOD OR CLOTHES OR THE WILL TO LIVE-” _a lie,_ Oberyn mouthed to the students, “-BECAUSE I HADN’T A SPEAR BUT I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT IN LIFE WAS MISSING, MY FATHER AND MY SPEAR. WHEN I WAS A LITTLE GIRL, WHEN I WAS EIGHT, MY FATHER CAME TO TAKE ME FROM MY MOTHER WHO WAS A WHORE IN OLDTOWN AND HE SAID TO ME— I AM OBERYN MARTELL AND YOU ARE OBARA MY DAUGHTER. WILL YOU CHOOSE TEARS OR THIS SPEAR MAKE YOUR CHOICE AT ONCE. YOU CANNOT BE A STRONG WOMAN IN FANFICTION APPARENTLY IF YOU DO NOT HAVE A WEAPON AND THAT WEAPON SHOULD BE THE SPEAR IT IS SUPERIOR JUST LIKE ME. AND TODAY THAT IS WHAT YOU WILL BE DOING YOU WILL BE CHOOSING THE SPEAR OR THE TEARS. THE TEARS WILL BE FROM WHEN I KILL YOU.”

Jeyne had her hand over Robb’s mouth as he leant over, eyes scrunched, making odd wheezing noises as he struggled to contain a fit of laughter. “Don’t get yourself killed again, Robb!”

“I’m trying not to!” Robb wheezed. “It’s a bit hard!”

“Tell them about being a strong female character and an effective warrior, my dear,” Oberyn said to the ridiculous warrior girl, who stood as if stunned, staring at the crowd before her, blank-eyed and stupid-like. “Tell them how to choose weapons that suit them, and how practising improves skill.”

Showbara just stared vacantly. And then, after a few uncomfortable seconds of near-silence, she opened her mouth. “YOU MUST HAVE A SPEAR IN ORDER TO BE A STRONG FEMALE CHARACTER YOU MUST FIGHT FOR DORNE YOU MUST BE A WARRIOR WITH A SPEAR YOU MUST BE LIKE ME I AM OBARA SAND.”

Lucy sniggered. All fell silent. Showbara paused, turning on her heels and marching straight over to the source of the laughter. And Showbara was right up in Lucy’s grill, breathing down her neck, looking downright lividly daft as she clutched her spear, ready to strike. Lucy trembled. She was taller than Showbara Sand, but, shrinking before the spear-twirling girl wonder, looked surprisingly small and weak in comparison.

“I FIGHT FOR DORNE!” she yelled. “WHO DO YOU FIGHT FOR, LITTLE GIRL???”

“The… North,” Lucy breathed, recoiling slightly, biting her lip so as to suppress any laughter… though by now, under the threat of being harpooned, this didn’t seem all that hilarious anymore.

“I SEE WHY DO YOU NOT FIGHT FOR DORNE I FIGHT FOR DORNE WHO DO YOU FIGHT FOR?!!”

“The North. House Stark and Lancashire!”

“THAT IS NOT IN DORNE!” Showbara wonder-raged as monotonely as possible, if it were even possible. Her dark eyes were glinting with speary fervour as she beheld what Lucy had got in her left hand. “HAVE YOU GOT A SPEAR?!”

“Yes! I take lessons with your father!”

“GOOD GIRL I WILL NOT BE KILLING YOU TODAY CAN I SAY THE SAME OF ALL OF YOU?”

“YES!” they answered in unison.

Saskia heaved a sigh of relief that Lucy was fine and unspeared, but Showbara wasn’t done with her inane threats and shrieking about Dorne. She was now breathing down the necks of a Ryger girl she recognised from archery and her friend, spear at the ready, whilst the girls cowered somewhat beneath that unwavering, penetrating stare, at the weapon aimed right at the Ryger girl’s jugular.

“WHAT ARE YOUR NAMES?”

“Maeve…”

“Jess…”

“GOOD MORNING JESS AND MAEVE I AM OBARA SAND BASTARD DAUGHTER OF OBERYN MARTELL I AM A SAND SNAKE THAT IS TO SAY ONE OF OBERYN’S DAUGHTERS THOUGH I AM THE ELDEST AND THE BEST. HE FATHERED ME ON A WHORE FROM OLDTOWN THAT IS WHY MY SURNAME IS SAND IT IS BECAUSE I AM A BASTARD BUT MY FATHER IS OBERYN MARTELL I AM NOT A MARTELL. WHY DO YOU NOT HAVE SPEARS?!”

“Because…” Maeve gulped. “I take archery, and Jess is doing swordfighting. That’s… that’s why we’ve not got spears…”

“WE ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO HURT LITTLE GIRLS IN DORNE BUT THAT IS MY FAVOURITE HOBBY. THAT IS WHY I HAVE COME TO THIS UNIVERSITY I WILL HURT YOU IF YOU DO NOT PICK UP THE SPEAR. WHEN I WAS A LITTLE GIRL IN DORNE I WAS NOT HURT I DID NOT CRY WHEN I PICKED UP THE SPEAR.”

“Thanks, Showbara,” Jess whispered, dropping the sword in her hand and backing away slightly.

Showbara’s lip twitched (the closest the robotic, crazily-monologuing young woman could come to smiling, evidently), and went off in search of her next victim. She found him over by Ellaria, holding his own spear and looking rather disheartenedly at her, at, maybe, what the show had done to her.

“YOU HAVE A SPEAR TOO?! SO DO I WHEN I WAS A CHILD MY FATHER OBERYN OF THE HOUSE MARTELL TOOK ME TO COURT AND HE SAID NO TEARS JUST SPEARS DO YOU KNOW MY FATHER OBER— OH…”

Showbara stood silently for a flicker of a second, squinty-eyed and thinking much too hard, before seeming to realise that she was, in fact, conversing with her father, who was Oberyn of the House Martell of Sunspear, in Dorne, for which she fought.

“NOW IS THE TIME OF RECKONING WHAT DO YOU CHOOSE DO YOU CHOOSE THE SPEARS,” Showbara monologued to the students, gesturing with a nod and point of her spear towards the massive pile, “OR THE TEARS YOU HAVE NO OTHER CHOICE. CHOOSE WISELY OR I WILL KILL YOU.”

They all chose tears. Of laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you sadly and pitifully unacquainted with Monty Python’s Flying Circus, [this is a Gumby](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M68GeL8PafE). MY BRAIN HURTS.
> 
> There is now a poll on [my profile on fanfiction.net](http://www.fanfiction.net/~brandend): WHO exactly is Benjen? Go on and cast your votes! You can vote for up to 20 different characters that he’s warging/secretly is! ;)
> 
> Next on: Orla tries to start a club, and Pyp and Grenn come with a special message about the Night’s Watch.


	16. Not a Gay Sex Club

**Not a Gay Sex Club**

“OH MY GOD, BLACK BROTHERS!” Esther exclaimed as soon as they entered the Contemporary Issues in Westerosi Society classroom for their final lesson of the week.

“That’s racist!” Hannah fumed.

“Members of the Night’s Watch!” Andy corrected.

Indeed, there were members of the Night’s Watch hanging out with Jon Snow at the front of the room. The two crows—one tall and thick of neck, a head taller than Jon, and the other small and with large ears—embraced each other in a manly hug, then did the same to Jon, who patted them on the back in a brotherly fashion and grinned.

“Glad you could come knock some sense into this lot,” he said.

_Jon Snow really does know nothing if he thinks that’s possible with Esther, by gods._

“OH MY GOD, THEY’RE GAY,” Letty and Hannah shouted in unison, rushing into their seats and leaning forwards, anxious for a good look at the obvious bumsex that was to follow. _Of course Letty thinks they’re gay. She thinks Theon and Robb and Jon create fuck sandwiches, and that Jaime and Bronn could be an item._

“Pyp and Grenn! But you died!” exclaimed a Ryger fanboy, pointing at the men who weren’t Jon Snow. “You died!”

 _So did Catelyn and Robb and Jon and Tywin and a whole bunch of others who work here,_ thought Saskia, _and that doesn’t stop them from existing in this terrifyingly amazing canon. Whoever these guys are, it’s not impossible for them to be here._ And who were Pyp and Grenn, exactly? Jon’s friends at Castle Black other than Sam? She didn’t quite remember them from the show, at least.

“Did not happen. Although, really, you’ve got to admit my show death was mint, as you say,” said Grenn, the tall one, beaming and puffing with pride. “I helped slay one of the last of the giants. I held the gate.”

“And my death did not happen, either, not in book canon. We’re very much alive. There’s no arrow through my neck,” Pyp said, “and no cock in my arse, Miss Quinn and Miss Postlethwaite. Not Grenn’s, not Sam’s, not Jon’s, not Edd’s, not Maester Aemon’s, and not Wun Wun’s.”

“You forgot Bowen Marsh, Alliser Thorne, Janos Slynt, Donal Noye, Rast, Satin, Benjen, and Ghost,” Grenn added.

“None of them, either.”

Esther raised her hand. “What about Three-Finger Hobb? What else is ‘e using those three fingers for, I wonder? Can ‘e fit all three of ‘em up Bowen’s arse in one go?”

“Holding carrots.”

“Not like that. As he chops them for stew,” Grenn was quick to add.

“Men can be friends and have platonic, brother-like relationships without wanting to put the wood in the hole,” said Pyp. “And that’s half the reason Jon asked us here today— to show you how the Night’s Watch is not a gay sex club.”

“But are you _gay_?” Letty had to ask as Andy just groaned and Edrick facepalmed, and Pyp and Grenn and Jon looked disapprovingly at her. “You sure seem like it. You hugged Jon and you live in a castle filled with no one but men and pigs and—” she trailed off a bit. “—you’ve got to be doing it! Where else are you going to get it from?!”

“How do you know you’re alive, Mr Pyp, ser?” Hannah slavered. “You’d know you were alive, and feel the heat of life within you, if only you would stroke Grenn’s chest, and nibble his ear, and put your cock in—”

“The Night’s Watch,” Grenn interrupted, groaning slightly, “is not a gay sex club, and Pypar isn’t my lover. Dolorous Edd isn’t dolorous because no one’s sticking him in the rear. Repeat after me: men can be friends without wanting to put the wood in the hole.”

“Men can be friends without wanting to put the wood in the hole,” Saskia and the rest of the lot repeated.

“Men CAN’T be friends without wanting to put the wood in the hole!” said Letty.

“Besides, statistically, Miss Postlethwaite,” said Pyp, “it would be extremely unlikely that everyone at Castle Black would be homosexual and that we would all fancy each other. In canon, Grenn specifically mentions a girl he liked back on the neighbouring farm where he was brought up. He’s not sticking it up anyone’s arse, and no one’s sticking it up his.”

“We are the shields that guard the realms of men. We are not the guardians of a secret homo paradise,” said Grenn. “If we need a wank, we get one from our own hands or a Mole’s Town whore, not Alliser Thorne.”

 _Well, that’s a disturbing mental image._ Others certainly seemed to think so, making looks of intense disgust—all save Esther, naturally.

“Is this clear?” Pyp asked.

They nodded solemnly.

“That said,” said Jon Snow, “the Night’s Watch also does not accept women as recruits. There are no sworn sisters of the Night’s Watch.”

“Yes, there are!” a few fangirls exclaimed.

“Like my OC Erenia Snow!” Kayleigh shouted.

“And Wendianka!”

“And Rhynyrah Targaryen, ward of Ned Stark!”

“Time for a lesson in Westerosi history and legend,” said Jon, grimacing. “Is anyone here familiar with the song and story of Brave Danny Flint?”

Only Andy, Edrick, Jay, and a girl off in the corner nodded.

“Years ago, Danny, a girl of House Flint, disguised herself as a boy to join the Night’s Watch—”

“Just like Erenia!” Kayleigh said excitedly. “She’s a bastard from the North who wants to fight and escape the marriage her father arranged for her! And then she falls in love with Jon, who falls in love with her the minute he sets eyes on her! And then he marries her beneath the heart tree and takes her virginity and they live happily ever after!”

“Let’s have a read of one of these ‘girl in the Night’s Watch’ fics, shall we, and compare the ending to that of Brave Danny Flint?” Jon said, leafing through a pile of papers on his desk. He found a particular stack – clearly marked Jon/OC – and selected one from the pile. “Which outcome is more realistic in Westeros amongst thieves and rapers?”

_“I can fight!” Erenia exclaimed to Alliser Thorne. “Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I can’t fight!”_

_“Doesn’t it, now?” the evil man laughed. “Well, Erenia, fight that one there.”_

_She picked up a sword and a shield and waved it at Grenn, who shrunk back in fear. She was waving the blade so fast it made whooshing noises. As she advanced on Grenn, he swung his own sword feebly to block Erenia’s blow, but missed and was hit in the shield._

_“I yield, I yield!” he cried._

_“Wow, how did you learn to fight like that?” Pyp asked, looking at Erenia with interest._

_“I taught myself,” she said proudly, curtseying, “though my father taught me some.”_

_“He must’ve been an amazing fighter.”_

_Erenia nodded; though she knew she was a better fighter than her father, it would be indecorous to be so proud, she thought. “He was,” she said, with a look to the fit bastard nearby who was also an awesome fighter. He was definitely noticing her now._

_“Nice swordsmanship,” he said, grinning at her. His deep brown eyes were boring into hers so sexily, and Erenia, for the first time in aeons, found herself blushing under his caring and loving stare. If this was the kind of man who was populating Castle Black, becoming a sworn sister of the Night’s Watch wasn’t going to be so bad at all._

“Whoever wrote that mess of a fic should be sentenced to digging latrines north of the Wall for three days,” said Pyp. Kayleigh crossed her arms and sulked, glowering at Pyp.

“Should not,” she retorted.

Grenn coughed. “We may not be legendary fighters, Miss Evans, but we are not weaklings. Also, we would not be admiring your Mary Sue’s fighting skills. We would be besting her and beating her as Rast beat Sam, and Jon would pay no notice to her. And others at Castle Black, the thieves and rapers and scum, would be having their way with her come nightfall, or earlier, and she would be very lucky indeed to live.”

“The Night’s Watch is full of men,” said Jon Snow, flexing his burnt hand, “who are not always the most honourable. Men are sentenced to serve in the Night’s Watch for crimes such as rape. Your Mary Sues would be treated with disdain – and rightfully so – because they would not truly be able to fight if they were reasonable characters. I would do no harm to Erenia, Kayleigh, but I would not fall in love with her or notice her in any way other than finding her foolish. I would not dishonour her against her will or with her permission. I would not break my vows and marry her beneath a heart tree.”

“We are to take no wives,” said Grenn, a bit sadly. “That is not to say that we are allowed to take husbands and male lovers. We are not allowed to father children.”

“Which we still can’t and never will on other men, Esther,” Jon noted with a glare at Esther, who was waving her hand madly and bouncing slightly in her seat. “Lower your hand. That, of course, is forbidden, likely because love distracts from duty and the Others like to zombify babies.”

“But I want to write mpreg with Wun Wun and Bowen Marsh!”

Grenn and Pyp made faces of extreme disgust, but Jon just shook his head—used to the insanity by now, most likely. “As Lord Tyrion tells me he likes to tell you, _no, just no_. But back to the _point_ , which is that there are no women in the Night’s Watch for a variety of valid reasons, and from this point on, _none_ of your fanfics will include women joining the Watch.”

A fair percentage of the fangirls around grumbled and sniffled—including Kayleigh, still sunk down in her seat and glowering at Pyp and Grenn, and now her beloved Jon Snow. How dare he apply reason and logic to her beloved fanfiction.

“Erenia could very well end up like Danny Flint—raped, murdered, and now haunting the Nightfort,” Jon said. “That’s not exactly the kind of romance any of you desire, I presume.”

“So...” said Amy, confused. “If there are no women, and the women can get killed, then who are you fucking?”

Grenn sighed. “Again, no one, our hands, or Mole’s Town whores. Why doesn’t anyone write an OC who’s a Mole’s Town whore?”

 _That’s actually an interesting idea,_ Saskia thought. _Seira could be the child of a Mole’s Town whore – Mole’s Town’s south of Castle Black, right? – and a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch, long dead. And she could see the war and the situation with the wildlings through the eyes of one of the smallfolk. Seira could be an interesting character, with loads of daddy angst and problems with men, but she could ennoble herself by doing other work. But no. She could escape the sack of Mole’s Town, ready to better herself and stop whoring because she’s got some kind of disease, like chlamydia or whatever else they’ve got in Westeros, and by the time she’s at Castle Black, she gets raped and killed, and the brothers who used to fuck her don’t give a rat’s arse that she dies._

 _Well, that’s depressing and pointless, like a bad Thomas Hardy novel set in Westeros._ What would Tyrion and Miss Oloi think of it? Would that be a sane and canonical thing to write, or would the travails of a dying and ultimately murdered bastard-born whore be more suited to an original story? Would they approve of the actually-written-out story of Brave Danny Flint, or a Westerosi-style ballad about her?

In any case, the wheels were already turning in Saskia’s head—beyond the repetitive cycle of Robb, Robb, Robb.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Speaking of clubs that were not gay sex ones, if you could get a staff member and at least three other people to sign up, you were allowed to start your own fan club of some kind—or so Lord Tywin had begrudgingly announced earlier that week. Saskia tittered with excitement and dread, for now she could meet fellow Robb fans – fellow competition for his love – and discuss him as much as she wanted without Orla to tell her she was blathering again, or Letty to shriek that no, he’d not be having her because he would be having Theon, very roughly (though now Lucy enjoyed reminding Letty that no, neither Robb nor Theon was gay). Saskia went to have a peek at the updated club list in the Hawick common room, hoping and praying there’d be a Robb club.

_Sansa Stark Appreciation League  
Leader & Sponsor: Jay Remo & Robb Stark_

_Robbers Anonymous  
Leader & Sponsor: Megan Finch & Jeyne Westerling-Stark_

_Aww yiss,_ Saskia thought. _My people._ Her heart sank a bit at realising she’d have to put up with Jeyne in order to attend, likely with Neddy in tow.

_Ramsay’s Girls  
Leader & Sponsor: Eve Ludden & Ramsay ~~Snow~~ Bolton_

_Society of Stannis Fans  
Leader & Sponsor: Nathan Hall & Davos Seaworth_

_People Who Want to See Jon Snow Fully Naked  
Leader & Sponsor: Emily Preston & Tormund Giantsbane_

What the hell was Tormund doing sponsoring this club?! Someone would soon be writing bad slash based on that wee titbit, no doubt.

_Learners of Hodorese  
Leader & Sponsor: Ashleigh Dudley & Hodor_

_Daenerys Is Our Queen  
Leader & Sponsor: Brandon Ford & Tyrion Lannister_

_Society for the Appreciation of Dorne  
Leader & Sponsor: Derrick Hynes & Ellaria Sand_

Even Esther, batshit Esther, led a club. Whilst some rather straight-laced students who liked pairings such as Jaime/Elia, Daario/Daenerys, Sam/Sansa, Ned/Cersei, Arya/Hot Pie, Robb/Dacey (whoever that was), and Lyanna/Ashara frequented _Beautiful Loves: Uncommon ASoIaF Pairings_ meetings until they were scared off, it was, in reality, mostly a hotbed of Esther-led crackery. There, you were more likely to share pornographic diatribes about Tywin and Bob the Builder, Barristan Selmy and Pope Benedict XVI, or Sansa’s erotic adventures with Chewbacca, a dalek, Batman, Molly Weasley, Daniel Day-Lewis, Margaery, a harem of Care Bears, _and_ lemon cakes than you were to discuss how the Seven Kingdoms would’ve been affected had Cersei been betrothed to Ned, or what would’ve happened had Baelor Hightower not suffered from vile farts and had married Elia Martell. Because they were very keen on shipping Sansa with everything that moved, and too many things that didn’t, the Beautiful Loves club had many nemeses in the Sansa Stark Appreciation League, led by Jay (‘the sane one’, as Daenerys and Tyrion tended to call him). Robb, adorably, sponsored the club devoted to the protection and appreciation of his sister, who had never loved lemon cakes _that_ way, thank you very much.

That was what Saskia had heard, at least. Someday she would work up the courage to attend a Beautiful Loves meeting, but today was not that day. Saskia just signed up for Robbers Anonymous, and Lucy had signed up for, predictably, Society for the Appreciation of Dorne and People Who Want to See Jon Snow Fully Naked.

On Monday, the last day possible to get staff sponsorship for clubs, Orla went running around Harrenhal like a headless chicken with Saskia at her side… you know, for the appearance of support and as an apology for her previous bitchiness. Orla begged all the staff she could corner to sponsor People for the Perpetuation of Happiness, and sniffled through the refusals of Robb, Tywin, Catelyn, Bronn, Stannis (“Nothing makes him happy! Not even Shireen being alive in this canon, probably! He’s a soulless dry shite! He needs to die!” Orla cried just a bit too loudly, thus inciting a barrage of insults and death threats from the Mannimals), Tyrion, Sansa, Miss Oloi, Miss Ellie, Jon, Daenerys, Sandor, Oberyn, Hodor (she’d explained her mission entirely in Hodorese, but it was still a resounding _hodor_ ), Wyman, Ygritte, Davos, Ramsay (“He said the only thing that’d make him happy’d be stabbing my eyes to mush with splintery twigs, then rolling me in a pile of bacon and leaving me to the dragons!” she wailed), Jeyne, Tormund, and her one true love, Jaime, who just laughed at her and walked away without comment.

“Tyrion seems rather happy with his one true love, wine,” Saskia told Orla as she stood, dejected, in Jaime’s wake out in the blustery courtyard before their Domestic Arts lesson. “I don’t know why you’d want to interfere with love so pure. What love can Sansa give him that wine can’t?”

Come to think of it, _she_ was beginning to like wine, which was as freely available as ale and mead at meals, though Saskia knew the good stuff was reserved for staff. Love – even of the King in the North – couldn’t make you feel as fantastic in the head as wine did, unless it were a fanfiction and you were exaggerating, because at home in the real world, that shit hurt.

“Because he’s meant to be with Sansa who’s meant to be with Sandor!” Orla whined. “Can he father sweet Lannister children on wine?”

“Just give it up. This is Westeros. You’re not going to get your ‘happily ever after’ even here. Like, if Jaime and Brienne and Sandor and Sansa wanted to be married, they would be. You know, like,” it almost pained her to say it, “like… Robb and Jeyne.”

“I can too!”

“What’re you going to do, annoy them until they give in?”

Orla’s eyes sparkled. “You think that’d work better than reasoning with them?”

“No,” said Saskia, “but good luck with that.”

Suddenly, Brienne appeared at the far end of the courtyard, walking into a garden for a stroll. Orla perked up immediately.

“Brienne! My lady! My lady!” Orla howled, not even bothering to reply to Saskia, running after her. Saskia followed. Maybe this conversation would be excellent fodder for things to tell Jaqen H’ghar; one never knew. “Do—do you want— want to sponsor— People for the— Perpetuation of Happiness?” Orla panted, doubled over and catching her breath.

Brienne gave her a quizzical look. “What is that?”

“My new club. Though—though it’s not got a lot of members yet. Just me, Sara, Evie, and some of their friends. We’ll be growing soon enough.”

Brienne looked long and hard at both of them. “And what do you _do_?”

“Well, you see, our goals are to make sure you’re happy. Like, you and Jaime like each other, don’t you? I’d even say you secretly love each other. So we want to perpetuate happiness here, where George RR Martin doesn’t rule, and allow and encourage you to marry and have babies and be happy whilst you can be. This is likely the only canon in which you’ll be allowed that mercy. Think about it.”

“There are more important legacies than children,” said Brienne, cringing a wee bit. “More paramount is honour, that after we are gone from this university and returned to canon, that we are viewed favourably, that we have acted with principle, and that we have fulfilled our oaths.”

“That’s not happy,” Orla said blankly.

“Perhaps not, but it is important.”

“Marriage makes people happy,” Orla whinged one more, making silly pleady eyes at Brienne. “So do children. You and Jaime might want to get on that. Tell Jon and Ygritte, too. Olly can’t possibly be making them happy. She didn’t birth Olly, and he’s not a wee cute Targaryen baby. He’s pure satanic.”

“Children do not always bring their parents joy, Miss Dwyer. They are often disappointments. That is not an insult to you,” Brienne said, “but it is true all the same.”

“I might disappoint my granddad and my ma a bit, but babies don’t in fanfiction!”

“Yes, in some cases and in fanfiction. But life is not a song or a fanfiction.”

“So,” Orla said as sweetly as possible, her voice already wavering with disappointment, “are you going to sponsor People for the Perpetuation of Happiness?”

The answer to that, also, was a no.

In the end, Orla managed to get Sam to sponsor People for the Perpetuation of Happiness on the condition of her adding ‘Sam becomes a wizard and marries Gilly’ to that stupid list that served as club goals. Sam hadn’t died, though, and Thoros and Melisandre weren’t around (yet) to revive anyone (and you’d not trust yourself to Maester Qyburn for that or anything, ever), so Sam _was_ very much bound to his vows, which, Saskia was now perfectly assured, meant no taking any wives _or_ husbands. All the same, Sam totally shipped half the things that Orla shipped like the fuckin’ Royal Mail. And Gilly was working in Winterfell, serving Lord Eddard Stark, apparently, so Orla’s task, were she up to it at all, was that much harder.

“I don’t care about Sam and Gilly,” she told Saskia on their way into the sewing room, where Lady Stark, Jeyne, and Sansa were already awaiting them. “They’re already happy. Now if Sam can convince Sansa and Jon and Jaime to do the right thing…”

“…And sew your mouth shut?” Saskia snorted.

“Sansa! Look! I’ve started a club!” Orla whined, ignoring Saskia, waving about her urple list and her new club roster, with thankfully few names at this point. Sansa just looked coolly at Orla, barely looking up from her sewing—that was unfortunately going nowhere near Orla’s mouth. “It’s called People for the Perpetuation of Happiness, and now you can marry Sandor!”

Catelyn tutted. Jeyne rolled her eyes. Sansa sighed. Saskia inwardly cringed. The girl was hopeless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to start a club that isn’t a gay sex one, or want to join any mentioned? Let me know in a review/PM and I will add you as a representative of that club. Perhaps we’ll take a trip to some of these clubs; let me know if there’s any in particular that interest you. Also, my apologies for the ‘girl in the Night’s Watch’ fic I pulled out of my drunk arse. I hope it was as terrible as some of the real ones I’ve seen. And fear not; the fans, including Saskia and Orla, won’t always be so hopeless. That’s the point of an OFU, after all.
> 
> ‘Put the wood in the hole’ (or, as we’d say, ‘put wood inth’ole’) is an old-school local expression meaning ‘shut the door’. Of course I had to twist it to sexual purposes lol.
> 
> Next on: Shireen and Davos host a reading circle… with fanbrats who cannot read. Alas.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for your interest in OFUW! Applications for pupils are now closed.


End file.
